The paradox of acting

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Paradox of actini

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THE PARADOX OF ACTING.

Nq-po Readyy Price One Shillings

Talma on the AEior s Art.

WITH A PREFACE
BY

HENRY IRVING.

Any proceeds of thei^ah of this Effay tpUI be gi'uen to the
ABors* Benc'volent Fund.

BICKERS & SON, LEICESTER SQUARE.

THE

PARADOX OF ACTING

Tranjlated with Annotations

■ s'- FROM

Diderot's ' paradoxe sur le comedien'

/I — ^

BY

WALTER HERRIES POLLOCK

WITH A PREFACE
BY

HENRY IRVING.

LONDON

CHATTO & WINDUS, PICCADILLY
1883

{All rights rejirvedl

London :
Printed by Strangeways & Sons, Tmer Street, St. Martin's Lane.

Infcribed by the Tranjlator

TO

ALFRED EGMONT HAKE.

TRANSLATOR'S NOTE.

TV/TY Thanks to Mr. Henry Irving
will, I thin\, be underjiood without my
giving them fpecial exprejjion. I have alfo
to than\ Mr. W. E. Henley for the
invaluable aid he has given me in the anno-
tations to Diderot's wor\.

W. H. P

PREFACE.

IT is the nature of a paradox that it fliould
deal with extremes. Diderot's entertaining
work is an apt illuftration of this truth. Having
perfuaded himfelf that Jenfibility fhould have no
part in an aftor's fundlions, he goes on to prove
that it is one of the misfortunes, and even one of
the vices, of the human mind. He is almoft as
angry with it as Sir Peter Teazle is with every-
thing that founds like a fentiment. ' Senfibility
cripples the intelligence at the very jundlure
when a man needs all his felf-pofTefljon.' Senfi-
bility is the * difpofition which accompanies or-
ganic weaknefs.' It ' inclines one to being com-
paffionate, to being horrified, to admiration, to
fear, to being upfet, to tears, to faintings, to
refcues, to flights, to exclamations, to lofs of
felf-control, to being contemptuous, difdainful.

^refc

ace.

to having no clear notion of what is true, good,
and fine, to being unjuft, to going mad.' A
number of illuftrations, real or imaginary, drawn
oftenfibly from his own experience, enable the
philofopher to fhow that whenever he was un-
equal to an emergency, whenever a repartee was
not ready on his tongue, he was the viftim of
fenfibility. On one occafion he did not lofe his
head, but was able to reproach a man for re-
fufing help to a ftarving brother ; and this he
fets down to the habit of cool refledtion, and not
to the impulfe of indignant humanity. In a
word, it is_imgoflible, according to Diderot's
theory, for fudden feeling of any kin'd to find
juft_and adequate expreflion. Even th.e orator
can never be fwayed by real emotion, but muft
produce his fineft efFedts, muft move the multi-
tude at his will, by a fimulated fervour which is
the outcome of care and calculation.

This is a paradox, indeed ; but it is no bufi-
nefs of mine to vindicate human nature againft
the philofopher's fantafy. The bafis of his
fpeculation is the charafter of aftors, and as he
is fufiiciently inaccurate in painting this, there

'Freface. xi

is no neceflity to follow him through all the
variations of his theme. Diderot had the
higheft opinion of afting^as an art. The great
adtor, he faid, was even a more remarkable
being than the great poet. Yet the aftor was
in fome refpedts a worthlefs creature, without
charafter or even individuality, and wholly
lacking in moral fenfe. The adors of Diderot's
day were not only devoid of fenfibihty on the
ftage ; they had not a particle of fentiment in
private life. They were often feen to laugh,
never to weep. They were 'ifolated, vagabonds,
at the command of the great,' and had ' little
condudt, no friends, fcarce any of thofe holy and
tender ties which aflbciate us in the pains and
pleafures of another, who in turn Ihares our
own.' This pidture may have had fome truth
then ; nobody will pretend that it is true now.
The ftage in Diderot's time did not enjoy that
focial efteem which makes public fpirit and pri-
vate independence, Adtors were the hangers-
on of the Court ; adlreffes were, in too many
cafes, worfe than hangers-on. ' Want of educa-
tion, poverty, a libertine fpirit,' fays Diderot,

xii Preface.

'made adlors flip on the fock or the bufliin ;'
and to the libertine fpirit he frankly confefTes
when fpeaking of his own early defire to enter
the theatrical profeffion. ' The flage is a re-
fource, never a choice. Never did adlor become
fo from love of virtue, from defire to be ufeful
in the world, or to ferve his country or family 4
never from any of the honourable motives
which might incline a right mind, a feeling
heart, a fenfitive foul, to fo fine a profeffion.'
When fuch an aflumption is efTential to a
paradox, it is plain that ingenuity and plaufi-
bility are at their moft audacious climax. For,
Diderot's pofition is nothing fhort of this — that,'
though wholly deftitute of moral qualities^ the;
accompliflied adlor muft, by fheer force of imita-
tion, abforb into himfelf for the purpofes of his
art the moral qualities he fees in others. This
is not with him an affair of feeling, but of argu-
ment. He ' mufl: have penetration and no fen-
fibility ; the art of mimicking everything, or,
which comes to the fame thing, the fame apti-
tude for every fort of charadter amd part.' The
obvious anfwer to this is, that an aftor's apti-

'Preface. xiii

tude, however great may be his verfatility, muft
have limits. He cannot, any more than another
man, be born without a temperament, and
though his talent may be many-fided, his natural
idiofyncrafy will impel him more ftrongly in
one dire6tion than in another. It was neceflary
for the purpofe of his paradox that Diderot
fhould aflume that fenfibility muft be a wild,
ungovernable emotion, abfolutely fatal to the
nerve of all who are afflidted by it. The one
example Diderot gives of a dramatic artift
guided by fenfibility leaves no doubt of this.
Mile. Dumefnil, he tells us, 'comes on the
ftage not knowing what fhe is going to fay;
half, the time fhe does not know what fhe is
faying : but fhe has one fublime moment.'
Therefore Mile. Dumefnil was not a great
aftrefs. But Talma thought fhe was. It is
of this adtrefs, as well as of Le Kain, Mole,
and Monvel, that he fays, 'It was only by a
faithful imitation of truth and nature that they
fucceeded in creating thofe powerful emotions in
an enlightened nation which ftill exift in the
recolledions of thofe who heard them.' For an

xiv 'Preface.

adrefs to come on the ftage not knowing what
fhe is going to fay is not the way to give a
faithful imitation of truth and nature. ' The
extravagant creature who lofes her felf-control
has no hold on us ; that is gained by the man
who is felf-controlled.' But is there no fuch
thing as infpiration ? ' Certainly there is,' re-
plies the philofopher. ' You may have your
fublime moments, but they muft come when
the man of genius is hovering between nature
and his fketch of it, and keeping a watchful eye
on • both. Cool refledtion muft bring the fury
of enthufiafm to its bearings.' Exadlly ; but
this is fcarcely the bearing of the paradox, for
why ftiould not the man of fenfibility exercife
cool refledtion and a watchful eye when the
ideas fuggefted by his emotions are fubjefted
to the teft of his judgment ? When Macready
played Virginius after burying his loved daughter
he confefled that his real experience gave a new
force to his ading in the moft pathetic fitua-
tions of the play. Are we to fuppofe that this
was a delufion, or that the fenfibility of the
man was a genuine aid to the aftor ? Bannifter

'Preface. xv

faid of John Kemble that he was never pathetic,
becaufe he had no children. From this I infer,
that Bannifter found that the moral quality de-
rived from his domeftic aflbciations had much
to do with his own afting. And John Bannifter
was a great ad:or. Talma fays, that when deeply
moved he found himfelf making 'a rapid and
fugitive obfervation on the alteration of his
voice, and on a certain fpafmodic vibration it
contradted in tears.' Has not the adtor who
can thus make his own feelings part of his art
an advantage over the adtor who never feels,
but makes his obfervations folely from the fen-
fibility of others ? Untrained adtors, yielding
to excitement on the ftage, have been known
to ftumble againft the wings in impaffioned
exit. But it is quite poffible to feel all the
excitement of the fituation and yet be perfectly
felf-poflefled. This is art which the adbor
who lofes his head has not maftered. It is
rieceflary to this art that the mind fhould
have, as it were, a double confcioufnefs, in
which all the emotions proper to the occafion
may have full fway, while the adlor is all

xvi 'Preface.

the time on the alert for every detail of his
method.

■^ I call fenfibllity,' fays Talma, ' that faculty
of exaltation which agitates an adtor, takes pos-
feffion of his fenfes, fliakes even his very foul,
and enables him to enter into the moft tragic
fituations, and the moft terrible of the pafTions,
as if they were his own. The intelligence which
accompanies fenfibility judges the impreffions
which the latter has made us feel ; it feledts,
arranges them, and fubjefts them to calculation.
It aids us to diredt the employment of our
phyfical and intelleftual forces — to judge be-
tween the relations which are between the poet
and the Situation or the charader of the per-
fonages, and fometimes to add the ftiades that
are wanting, or that language cann,ot exprefs:
to complete, in fine, their expreffion by adion
and phyfiognomy.' That, in a fmall compafs,
is the whole matter. It would be impoffible to
give a more perfeft defcription of the art of
afting in a few words. Talma does not afTume
that the intelligent adlor who does not feel
cannot be an admirable artift. ' The infpired

"Preface. xvii

ador will fo aflbciate you with the emotions
he feels that he will not leave you the liberty
of judgment ; the other, by his prudent and
irreproachable adhing, will leave your faculties
at liberty to reafon on the matter at your
cafe.' Nor need it be contended that the
adlor of fenfibility muft always feel — that, as
Diderot fuggefts, he muft wear himfelf out by
excefs of foul. It may be that his playing will
be more fpirited one night than another. It is
poflible to fee in the writings of the greateft
novelifts where the pen has flagged, and where
the deftnefs of the workman is more confpicuous
than the infpiration of the man of genius. But
the aftor who combines the eledtric force of a
ftrong perfonality with a maftery of the refources
of his art, muft have a greater power over his
audiences tKan the paffionlefs acftor who gives a
moft artiftic fimulation of the emotions he never
experiences.

It will be obferved that Diderot lays great
ftrefs upon the divorce between Nature and the
Stage. He wasThinking of the ftage of Racine,
and not of the fl:age of Shakfpeare. He quotes

xviii 'Preface.

Garrick to the eiFed that 'an acftor who will
play you a fcene of Shakfpeare to perfedtlon is
ignorant of the firft principles of declamation
needed by Racine.' Garrick made a revolution
in Englifh declamation by fhowing that Hamlet's
advice to the players might be literally obeyed.;
But to French critics of that day this was rank
herefy. They would not admit that it was the
function of tragic poets and adtors to hold the
mirror up to Nature. Diderot points out that
people do not fpeak on the ftage as they do in
the ftreet. Every jealous man does not utter
laments as pathetic and eloquent as Othello's,
but thefe are none the lefs human becaufe they
are couched in fplendid didbion. They move
the hearer becaufe they are the utterance of a
man's agony. But to Diderot the creations of
Racine were out of this fphere of human emo-
tion. They were grand Ideal types, which could
not exprefs themfelves in fimple language ; they
required an artificial declamation. In which any-
thing like a natural tone would have been a
facrilege. So the chances that the fenfibillty of
the aftor would be in keeping with the ftilted

'Preface. xix

method he was expedted to adopt were neceflarily
few.

If a(5tors feel, how is it, aflcs our author,
that they can quarrel or make love on the
ftage all the while they are conducing fome
fcene of great pith and moment, by which the
audience is deeply moved? Diderot illuftrates
this difficulty with much wit. It is fufficient
to reply, that the experience of the adtor is
often fuperior to the perceptions of his audi-
ence ; and that to feel love or averfion for a
charadter in a play it is not neceflary to enter-
tain one fentiment or the other for the a<5tor or
aftrefs who reprefents that charadler. The
whole foul of an adtor may be engaged in
Hamlet's revenge upon Claudius, but he need
not on that account feel any defire to flay the
excellent gentleman who enadts the king.

Perhaps it will always be an open queftion
how far fenfibility and art can be fufed in the
fame mind. Every adlor has his fecret. He
might write volumes of explanation, and the
matter would ftill remain a paradox to many.
It is often faid that adtors fhould not flied

XX

'Preface.

tears, that real tears are bad art. Tfiis is not
fo. If tears be produced at the aftor's will
and under his control, they are true art ; and
happy is the adbor who numbers them amongft
his gifts. The exaltation of fenfibility in art
may be difficult to define, but it is none the
lefs real to all who have felt its power.

Henry Irving.

THE PARADOX OF ACTING.

The First Speaker.
Let us talk no more of that.

The Second Speaker.
Why?

The First.
It is the work of a friend of yours.*

* The work referred to was Garrick, ou ks ABeurs Anglais,
a tranflation by Antonio Fabio Sticotti of an Englifli pamphlet.
The tranflation appeared in Paris in 1769. Sticotti was one
of the Com'edien^ du Rot de la Troupe Italienne, was famous in
the parts both of Pierrot and of Pantalon, and was popular
in private life. A moft interefling account of the Italian
company in Paris, and of how by degrees they came to aft in
French and to play French pieces, will be found in M. Cam-
pardon's book, Les Comkdiens du Roi de la Troupe Italienne.
(Paris : Berger-Levrault et Cie.)

I have, with confiderable trouble, procured a copy of
Sticotti's work in a fecond edition publiflied, without his
name on the title-page, in Paris by 'J. P. Coftard, Libraire,
Rue Saint J ean-de-Beauvais. M.DCC.LXX.' It is a free
veriion, with many additions, of The ASor, or a Treatije on
the Art of Playing. (London : Printed for R. GriiHths, at
the Dunciad in Pater-nofter Row. MDCCLV.)

B

2 'The 'Paradox of iASling.

The Second.
What does that matter ?

The First.
A good deal. What is gained by accepting the
alternatives of holding his talent or my judgment
cheap, of going back on the good opinion you hold
either of him or of me ?

The Second.
That will not be the refult ; and were it fo it would
make no hole in my friendfhip for both of vou, founded
as it is on firmer grounds.

The First.
May be.

The Second.
It is fo. Do you know of what you juft now
remind me ? Of an author I know who fell on his
knees to a woman he loved to beg her not to go to the
firft night of a piece of his.

The First.
A modeft man, and a prudent.

The Second.
He was afraid that her affeftion might hang on the
amount of his literary fame.

The First.
Like enough.

The '•Paradox of t/iBing.

The Second.
That a public check might leflen him fomewhat in •-
his miftrefs's eyes.

The First.
That lofs of love would follow on lofs of reputation.
That ftrikes you as abfurd ?

The Second.
It was thought to be fo. The box was taken ; he
had a complete fuccefs ; and you may guefs how he
was embraced, made much of^ careffed.

The First.
He would have been made all the more of if the
piece had been hiffed.

The Second.
I am fure I am right.

The First.
And I hold to my view.

The Second.
Hold to it by all means ; but remember that I at
leaft am not a woman, and that I am anxious you
fliould explain yourfelf.

The First.
Abfolutely ?

The Second.
Abfolutely.

T^he Paradox of (tASling.

The First.
I fhould find it much eafier to fay nothing than to
veil what I really think.

The Second.
Of courfe.

The First.
I fhall be uncompromifing.

The Second.
That is juft what my friend would like you to be.

The First.
Well then, as I mufl: fpeak — his work, crabbed,
obfcure, complicated, bombaflic as it is in ftyle, is'yet
full of commonplace. A great dramatic artift will not
be a bit the better, a poor a£tor not a bit the lefs
inefficient, for reading it. It is Nature who befl:ows
perfonal gifts — appearance, voice, judgment, taft. It
is the fludy of the great models, the knowledge of the
human heart, the habit of fociety, earneft work, ex-
perience, clofe acquaintance with the boards, which
perfefl: Nature's gifts. The acJtor who is merely a
mimic can count upon being always tolerable ; his
playing will call neither for praife nor for blame.

The Second.
Or elfe for nothing but blame.

i

The First.
Granted. The acStor who goes by Nature alone is

The 'Paradox of aASiing.

often ^eteftable, fometimes excellent. But in whatever
line, beware of a level mediocrity. No matter how
harfhly a beginner is treated, one may eafily foretell
his future fuccefs. It is only the incapables who are
ftifled by cries of 'OiF! off!'* IHow fliould Nature
without Art make a great aftor when nothing happens
on the ftage exa£tly as it happens in nature, and when
dramatic poems are all compofed after a fixed fyftem of
principles ? r And how can a part be played in the fame
way by two different actors when, even with the
cleareft, the moft precife, the moft forceful of writers,
words are no more, and never can be more, than
fymbols, indicating a thought, a feeling, or an idea ; fym-
bols which need a£tion, gefture, intonation, expreflion,
and a whole context of circumflance, to give them their
full fignificance ?^ When you have heard thefe words —
' Que fait la votre main ?
Je tate votre habit, I'etoiFe en eft moelleufe,'

what do you know of their meaning ? Nothing.
Weigh well what follows, and remember how often
and how eafily it happens that two fpeakers riiay ufe
the fame words to exprefs entirely different thoughts
and matters. The inftance I am going to cite is a
very fingular one ; it is the very work of your friend
that we have been difcufling. Afk a French adior

* Cf. Lord Beaconsfield's ' You fiall hear me one day,'
at the end of his firft unfuccefsful and derided Ipeech in the
Houfe of Commons.

'The '■Paradox of zABing.

what he thinks of it ; he will tell you that every word
of it is true. Afk an Englifh aftor, and he will fwear
that, ' By God^ there's not a fentence to change ! It
is the very gofpel of the ftage ! ' However, fince
there is nothing in common between the way of
writing comedy and tragedy in England, and the
way of writing ftage poems in France ; fince, ac-
cording to Garrick himfelf, an adlor who will play you a
fcene of Shakfpeare to perfedtion is ignorant of the
firft principles of declamation needed for Racine; fince,
entwined by Racine's mufical lines as if by fo many
ferpents whofe folds comprefs his head, his feet, his
hands, his legs, and his arms, he would, in attempting
thefe lines, lofe all liberty of aftion ; it follows obvioufly
that the French and the Englifh adlors, entirely at one
as to the foundnefs of your author's principles, are yet
at variance, and that the technical terms of the ftage
are fo broad and fo vague that men of judgment, and
of diametrically oppofite views, yet find in them the
light of convi£tion. Now hold clofer than ever to
your maxim, '•Avoid explanation if what you want is
a mutual under/landing.'*

The Second.
You think that in every work, and efpeciallyin this,

* This was a favourite aphorifm of Grimm, to whom
the firft fketch of the Paradoxe was addrefled a propos of
Garrick, ou les ABeurs Anglais. It is given in vol. viii. of
M. Affezat's edition. (Paris : Garnier freres.)

The 'Paradox of aASfing.

therearetwo diflinft meanings, both expreffedinthefame
terms, one underftood in London, the other in Paris ? \

The First.
Yes ; and that thefe terms exprefs fo clearly the
two meanings that your friend himfelf has fallen into a
trap. In aflbciating the names of Englifli with thofe
of French aftors, applying to both the fame precepts,
giving to both the fame praife and the fame reproofs,
he has doubtlefs imagined that what he faid of the one
fet was equally true of the other.

The Second.

According to this, never before was author fo

wrong-headed.

The First.

I am forry to admit that this is fo, fince he ufes
the fame words to exprefs one thing at the Crofs-roads
of Bufly and another thing at Drury Lane. Of courfe
I may be wrong. But the important point on which
your author and I are entirely at variance concerns the
qualities above all neceffary to a great adlor. In '
my view he mufl: have a deal of judgment. He muftj
have in himfelf an unmoved and difinterefl:ed on-i
looker. He muft have, confequently, penetration and
no fenfibility ; the art of mimicking everything, or,
" which comes to the fame thing, the fame aptitude for
every fort of charadter and part.

The Second.
No fenfibility ?

8 The '■Paradox of lASiing.

■%-■/- ^
/>' ! ^" ' The First.

None. I have not yet arranged my ideas logically,

and you muft let me tell them to you as .they come

to me, with the fame want of order that marks your

friend's book. If the aiSor were full, really full,

of feeling, how could he play the fame part twice

running with the fame fpirit and fuccefs ? Full of fire

at the firft performance, he would be worn out and

cold as marble &r the third. But take it that he is'^n

attentive mimic and thoughtful difciple of Nature, then

the firfl time he comes on the ftage as Auguftus, Cmna,

Orofmanes, Agamemnon, or JVIahomet, faithful copying

of himfelf and the efFedts he has arrived at, and con-

ftantly obferving human nature, will fo prevail that

his adling, far from lofing in force, will gather ftrength

with the new obfervations he will make from time to

time. He will increafe or moderate his effefts, and

you will be more and more pleafed with him. If he is

himfelf while he is playing, how is he to flop being

himfelf.? If he wants to flop being himfelf, how

is he to catch jufl: the point where he is to ftay his

hand \

1 What confirms me in this view is the unequal

f a6ting of players who play from the heart. From

them you muft expeiSi: no unity. Their playing is

alternately ftrong and feeble, fiery and cold, dull

and fublime. To-morrow^ they will mifs the point

they have excelled in to-day ; and to make up for

it will excel in fome paffage where laft time they

T^he 'Paradox of zASling.

failed.* On- the- other hand, the aftor who plays
from thought, from ftudy of human nature, from
conflant imitation of fome ideal type, from imagin-
ation, from memory, -will— be- one and -the -fame at
all perfoHBances^ will be always at his befl: mark;
he has confidered, combined, learnt and arranged"^
the whole thing in his head ; his diiStion is neither
monotonous nor diffonant. His paflion has a definite
courfe — it has burfts, and it has rtctftions ; it has
a beginning, a middle, and an end. The accents
are the fame, the pofitions are the fame, the move-
ments are the fame ; if there is any difference be-
tween two performances, the latter is generally the
better. He will be invariable ; a looking-glafs, as
it were, ready to refledl realities, and to refleft them
ever with the fame precifion, the fame flrength, and
the fame truth. Like the poet] he will dip for everl
into the inexhauftible treafure-houfe of Nature, inftead
of coming very foon to an end of his own poor
refources.

What a£i:ingwas ever more perfeft than Clairon's?-]-

* This was, according to good authority, the cafe
with ' Talma in his earlier days ; and was certainly fo with
M. Mounet Sully in his earlier days. Both adlors learnt by
experience the unwifdom of relying upon infpiration alone.

f Mile. Clairon was born in Conde in 1723, and received
her firft impulfe to go on the ftage from feeing Mile. Dan-
geville taking a dancing lefTon in a room of which the windows
were oppofite to thofe of the attic in which Clairon's ill-

lo T^he Paradox of sASling.

Think over this, ftudy it ; and you will find that at
the fixth performance of a given part fhe has every
detail of her afling by heart, juft as much as every
word of her part. Doubtlefs fhe has imagined a
type, and to conform to this type has been her
firft thought ; doubtlefs fhe has chofen for her pur-
pofe the higheft, the greateft, the mofl: perfeft
type her imagination could corapafs. This type,
however, which fhe has borrowed from hiftorj^, or
created as who fhould create fome vaft fpeftre in
her own mind, is not herfelf. Were it indeed
bounded by her own dimenfions, how paltry, how
feeble would be her playing ! When, by dint of
hard work, fhe has got as near as fhe can to this
idea, the thing is done ; to preferve the fame near-
nefs is a mere matter of memory and practice. If
you were with her while fhe fludied her part how
many times you would cry out. That is right I
and how many times fhe would anfw^er, 7ba are
wrong !

natured mother had locked her up. She made her firft
appearance with the Italian company at the age of thirteen ;
then made a great fuccefs in comedy parts in the provinces ;
and at the age of eighteen came back to Paris, Here fhe
appeared firft at the Opera; then, in September 1743, at the
Franjais, where fhe took every one by furprife by choofing
to play Phedre, and playing it with complete fuccels. For
twenty years from this time onwards fhe remained queen of
the French ftage. She left the ftage in 1788 and died in 1 803.

The 'Paradox of oASling. 1 1

Juft fo a friend of Le Quefnoy's* once cried,
catching him by the arm, ' Stop ! you will make
it worfe by bettering it — you will fpoil the whole
thing!' 'What I have done,' replied the artift,
panting with exertion, ' you have feen ; what I have
got hold of and what I mean to carry out to the
very end you cannot fee.'

I have no doubt that Clairon goes through juft
the fame ftruggles as Le Quefnoy in her firft attempts
at a part ; but once the ftruggle is' over, once fhe has
reached the height fhe has given to her fpeftre, fhe
has herfelf well in hand, fhe repeats her efforts without
emotion. As it will happen in dreams, her head
touches the clouds, her hands ftretch to grafp the
horizon on both fides ; fhe is the informing foul of a
huge figure, which is her outward cafing, and in which
her efforts have enclofed her. As fhe lies carelefs
and ftill on a fofa with folded arms and clofed eyes
fhe can, following her memory's dream, hear herfelf,
fee herfelfj judge herfelf, and judge alfo the effe6ls fhe
will produce. In fuch a vifion fhe has a double per-
fonality ; that of the little Clairon and of the great
Agrippina.

The Second.
According to you the likefl thing to an a<Sor,
whether on the boards or at his private ftudies, is a

* This is a miftake of Diderot's. The perfon refeired to
is Duquefnoy the Belgian fculptor.

12 T^he Paradox of <iA£ling.

group of children who play at 'ghofts in a graveyard at
dead of night, armed with a white flieet on the end of
a broomftick, and fending forth from its flielter hollow
groans to frighten wayfarers.

The First.
Juft fo, indeed. Now with Dumefnil* it is a dif-
ferent matter : Ihe is not like Clairon. She comes on
the ftage without knowing what fhe is going to fay ;
half the time fhe does not know what fhe is faying :
but fhe has one fublime moment. And pray, why
fhould the a(Sor be different from the poet, the painter,
the orator, the mufician ? It is not in the fl:refs of the
firfl: burft that charafteriftic traits come out; it is
in moments of ftillnefs and felf-command ; in mo-
ments entirely unexpedled. Who can tell whence
thefe traits have their being ? They are a fort of
juiptalion. They come when the man of genius is
hovering between nature and his fketch of it, and
keeping a watchful eye on both. The beauty of
infpiration, the chance hits of which his work is full,
and of which the fudden appearance ftartles himfelf,

* Mile. Dumefnil was born in 171 3 — not, as M. de
Manne fays in his La Troupe de Voltaire^ in 1 7 1 1 . She came
to Paris from the provinces in 1737, and made her firft
appearance at the Fran^ais in the fame year as Clytemneftra
in Iphigenie en Aulide. She was admitted the following year,
left the ftage in 1776, and died in year XL of the
Republic. ;

• The 'Paradox of ^Sling. 1 3

have an importance, a fuccefs, a furenefs very dif-
ferent from that belonging to the firft fling. Cool
reflection muft bring the fury of enthufiafm to its '•
bearings. ^

The extravagant creature who lofes his felf-con-
trol has no hold on us ; this is gained by the man vv^ho
is felf-controlled. The great poets, efpecially the
great dramatic poets, keep a keen w^atch on w^hat is
going on, both in the phyfical and the moral world.

The Second.
The two are the fame.

The First.

They dart on everything which ftrikes their
imagination ; they make, as it were, a colleftion of
fuch things. And from thefe colleftions, made all
unconfcioufly, iflTue the grandeft achievements of their
work.

Your fiery, extravagant, fenfitive fellow, is for
ever on the boards ; he ads the play, but he gets
nothing out of it. It is in him that the man of genius
finds his model. TCreat poets, great acftors, and, I may
add, all great copyifts of Nature, in whatever art,
beings gifted with fine imagination, with broad judg-
ment, with exquifite tadl, with a fure touch of tafte, are
. the leaft fenfitive of all creatures._j They are too apt
for too many things, too bufy with obferving, con-
fidering, and reproducing, to have their inmoft hearts
affetaed with any livelinefs. ^ To me fuch an one

14 The Taradox of <t^Bmg.

always has his portfolio fpread before him and his
pencil in his fingers.

It is we who feel ; it is they who watch, ftudy, and
give us the refult.* And then . . . well, why fhould
I not fay it ? 'Senfibility is by no means the diftin-
guifhing mark of a great genius. He will have, let us
fay, an abftradt love of juftice, but he will not be

(moved to temper it with mercy. It is the head, not
the heart, which works in and for him^ Let fome
unforefeen opportunity arife, the man of ienfibility will
lofe it; he will never be a great king, a great minifter,
a great commander, a great advocate, a great phyfician.
Fill the front of a theatre with tearful creatures, but I
will none of them on the boards. JThink of women,
again. They are miles beyond us in fenfibility ; there
is no fort of comparifon between their paflion and ours.
Rut as much as we are below them in adlion, fo much
lare they below us in imitation. If a man who is really
manly drops a tear, it touches us more nearly than a
ftorm of weeping from a woman. In the great play,
the play of the world, the play to which I am con-
ftantly recurring, the flrage is held by the fiery fouls,
and the pit is filled with men of genius. The adlors
are in other words madmen ; the fpedtators, whofe
bufinefs it is to paint their madnefs, are fages. And it
is they who difcern with a ready eye the abfurdity of

* This was fo with Goethe, to take an inftance ; and
not improbably fo with Shakfpeare.

The 'Paradox of aASiing. 15

the motley crowd, who reproduce it for you, and who
make you laugh both at the unhappy models who
have bored you to death and at yourfelf. It is they
who watch you, and who give you the mirth-moving
pidlure of the tirefome wretch and of your own
anguifh in his clutches.*

You may prove this to demonftration, and a great
adlor will decline to acknowledge it; it is his own
fecret. A middling aftor or a novice is fure to con-
tradidt you flatly ; and of fome others it may be faid
that they believe they feel, juft as it has been faid of
fome pious people that they believe they believe ; and
that without faith in the one cafe and without fenfi-
bility in the other there is no health.

This is all very well, you may reply ; but what
of thefe touching and forrowful accents that are drawn
from the very depth of a' mother's heart and that
fliake her whole being ? Are thefe not the refult of L
true feeling } are thefe not the very infpiration of
defpair ? Moft certainly not. The proof is that they
are all planned ; that they are part of a fyfliem of de-
clamation ; that, raifed or lowered by the twentieth
part of a quarter of a tone, they would ring falfe ; that
they are in fubjeclion to a law of unity ; that, as in
harmony, they are arranged in chords and in difcords ;
jthat lilhiiiiiMii fliiilji i^ I Ill] |(i i^I h them comp lete=^

* Cf. inter alia Horace, Satires, Book I., Sat. IX. ; and
Les Fdcheux.

1 6 Ihe 'Paradox of sASiing.

nefs ; that they are the elements neceffary to the
folving of a given problem ; that, to hit the right mark
once, they have been pra£tifed a hundred times ; and
that, defpite all this praftice, they are yet found
wanting. Look you, before he cries ' Zaire vous
pleurez,' or '■ Vous y ferez ma fille,' the adlor has liftened
over and over again to his own voice. At the very
moment when he touches your heart he is liftening to
his own voice ; his talent depends not, as you think,
upon feeling, but upon rendering fo exadlly the
outward figns of feeling, that you fall into the trap^

le has rehearfed to himfelf every note of his paflion.

le has learnt before a mirror every particle of his
/defpair. He knows exactly when he muft produce his
^handkerchief and fhed tears; and you will fee him
weep at the word, at the fyllable, he has chofen, not a
fecond fooner or later. The broken voice, the half-
uttered words, the ftifled or prolonged notes of agony,
the trembling limbs, the faintings, the burfts of fury —
all this is pure mimicry, leffons carefully learned,
^ the grimacing of forrow, the magnificent aping which
the a£lor remembers long after his firft ftudy of it, of
which he was perfeftly confcious when he firft put it
before the public, and which leaves him, luckily for
, the poet, the fpeftator, and himfelf, a full freedom of
mind. Like other gymnaftics, it taxes only his bodily
ftrength. He puts off the fock or the bufkin; his voice
is gone; he is tired; he changes his drefs, or he goes to
bed ; and he feels neither trouble, nor forrow, nor depres-

The Paradox of nASling. \ j

fion, nor wearinefs of foul. All thefe emotions he has
given to you. The a£tor is tired, you are unhappy ;
he has had exertion without feeling, you feeling with- j
out exertion Were it otherwife the player's lot would
be the moft wretched on earth: but he is not the
perfon he reprefents ; he plays it, and plays it fo well 1
that you think he is the perfon ; the deception is all!
on your fide ; he knows well enough that he is notj
the perfon.

For diverfe modes of feeling arranged in concert
to obtain the greatefl: efFefi:, fcored orcheflrally, played
piano and played forte, harmonifed to make an
individual effe<£t — all that to me is food for laughter.
I hold to my point, and I tell you this : ' Extreme
fenfibility makes middling a<Sors ; middling fenfibility
makes the ruck of bad a£tors ; in complete abfence of
fenfibility is the poflibility of a fublime a6tor.' The
player's tears come from his brain, the fenfitive being's
from his heart ; the fenfitive being's foul gives un-
meafured trouble to his brain ; the player's brain gives
fometimes a touch of trouble to his foul : he weeps as
might weep an unbelieving prieft preaching of the
Paflion J as a feducer might weep at the feet of a
woman whom he does not love, but on whom he
would impofe ; like a beggar in the ftreet or at the
door of a church — a beggar who fubftitutes infult for
vain appeal ; or like a courtefan who has no heart, and
who abandons herfelf in your arms.

Have you ever thought on the difference between

1 8 'The Paradox of eASiing.

the tears raifed by a tragedy of real life and thofe
raifed by a touching narrative ? You hear a fine piece
of recitation ; by little and little your thoughts are
involved, your heart is touched, and your tears flow.
With the tragedy of real life the thing, the feeling and
the effetl, are all one; your heart is reached at once,
you utter a cry, your head iwims, and the tears flow.
Thefe tears come of a fudden, the others by degrees.
And here is the fuperiority of a true effefb of nature
over a well-planned fcene. It does at one ftroke what
the fcene leads up to by degrees, but it is far more
difficult to reproduce its efFedl ; one incident ill given
would fhatter it. Accents are more eafily mimicked
than aiJtions, but aftions go ftraighter to the mark.
This is the bafis of a canon to which I believe
there is no exception. If you would avoid cold-
nefs you muft complete your efFedt by adtion and not
by talk.

So, then, have you no objeftion to make ? Ah !
I fee ! You give a recitation in a drawing-room ; your
feelings are ftirred; your voice fails you; you burfl: into
tears. You have, as you fay, felt, and felt deeply.
Quite fo ; but had you made up your mind to that ?
Not at all. Yet you were carried away, you furprifed *
and touched your hearers, you made a great hit. All
this is true enough. But now transfer your eafy tone,
your fimple expreffion, your every-day bearing, to
the ftage, and, I aflure you, you will be paltry and
weak. You may cry to your heart's content, and the

The 'Paradox of eABing. 19

audience will only laugh. It will be the tragedy out-
fide a booth at a fair.* Do you fuppofe that the dia-
logue of Corneille, of Racine, of Voltaire, or, let me
add, of Shakfpeare, can be given with your ordinary
voice and with your firefide tone ? No ; not a bit
more than you would tell a firefide ftory with the open-
mouthed emphafis fit for the boards.

The Second.
Perhaps Racine and Corneille, great names as they
are, did nothing of account.

The First.

Oh, blafphemy ! Who could dare to fay it ? Who
toendorfeit? The merefl: word Cornp'^l" yft-nt-p ron.
not -be given in everyda y tone.

But, to go back, it mufl: have happened to you a
hundred times that at the end of your recitation, in the
very midft of the agitation and emotion you have
caufed in your drawing-room audience, a frefti gueft
has entered, and wanted to hear you again. You find
it impoflible, you are weary to the foul. Senfibility,
fire, tears, all have left you. Why does not the aftor
feel the fame exhauflion ? Becaufe there is a world of

* ' Ce ne fera pas une tragtdie, ce fera une- parade tragique
que vous jouerez.'

Parade tragique iz the brief fketch of a tale of horror given
by ftrolling players outfide their booth by way of tempting
fpeftatofs to the fuller performance to be given infide.

20 The 'Paradox of ^Sting.

difference between the interefts excited by a flattering
tale and by your fellow-man's misfortune. Are you
Cinna ? Have you ever been Cleopatra, Merope,
Agrippina ? Are thefe fame perfonages on the flage
ever hiftorical perfonages ? Not at all. They are
the vain images of poetry. No, nor even that. They
are the phantoms fafhioned from this or that poet's
fpecial fantafy. They are well enough on the ftage,
thefe hippogrifFs, fo to call them, with their aftions,
their bearing, their intonations. They would make
but a forry figure in hiftory; they would raife laughter
in fociety. People would whifper to each other, ' Is
this fellow mad .? Where in the world does this Don
Quixote come from 1 Who is the inventor of all this
ftufF.? In what world do people talk like this ?'

The Second.
And why are they not intolerable on the ftage \

The First.
Becaufe there is fuch a thing as ftage convention.
As old a writer as ^fchylus laid this down as a
formula — it is a protocol three thoufand years old.

The Second.
And will this protocol go on much longer ?

The First.
That I cannot tell you. All I know is that one
[gets further away from it as one gets nearer to one's

'The 'Paradox of <iABing. 2 1

own time and country. Find me a fituation clofer to
that of Agamemnon in the firft fcene of Iphigenia than
that of Henri IV. : when, befet by fears only too well
founded, he faid to thofe around him, ' They will
kill me ; there is nothing furer j they will kill me ! '
Suppofe that great man, that fuperb and haplefs
monarch, troubled in the night - watches with this
deadly prefentiment, got up and knocked at the door
of Sully, his minifter and friend — is there, think you, a
poet foolifli enough to make Henri fay —

' Oui, c'eft Henri, c'eft ton roi qui t'eveille ;
Viens, reconnais la voix qui frappe ton oreille?'

Or to make Sully reply —

' C'eft vous-m^me, feigneur ? Quel important befoin
Vous a fait devancer I'aurore de fi loin ?
A peine un faible jour vous eclaire et me guide,
Vos yeux feuls et les miens font ouverts. . . .' *

The Second.
Perhaps Agamemnon really talked like that.

* There were believers in poets quite foolifli enough for
this long after Diderot's time. It was precifely becaufe this
fort of didlion was dropped f or a more natural o-np in fffrngpi
that the play, from its firft fcene, raifed fuch a ttorm among
the clafficifts — as he who will may read in the pages of
Theophile Gautier. The lines quoted are from the fpeeches
of Agamemnon and Areas in the opening of Racine's Iphig'enie,
the name Henri being fubftituted for Agamemnon.

22 'The 'Paradox of sASling,

The First.

No more than Henri IV. did. Homer talks like
that ; Racine talks like that ; poetry talks like that ; and
this pompous language can only be ufed by unfamiliar
perfonages, fpoken from poetical lips, with a poetical
tone. Refle£t a little as to what, in the language of
the theatre, is being true, Tfi it f h nwin^; thip p;s as they
ac£-JH-Ratafe-? — Gertailllynot; — Were it fo the true
would be the commonplace. ''What, then, is truth for
.ftage purpofes ? UlJs--the-con4«n«tRg--©f-a<£lian,jdi£tio»j
fac£y -VQ i ce^ -m^¥em-eaty-aa4_gefture, to an_idjeal_t^£e_
I nvented by t he— pogt, andfrequently enhanced by
;tre_player.x That is the ftrange part of it. This type
not only influences the tone, it alters the adtor's very
walk and bearing. And hence it is that the player in
private and the player on the boards are two perfonages,
fo different that one can fcarce recognife the player in
private. The firft time I fawMlle. Clairon in her own
houfe I exclaimed, by a natural impulfe, ' Ah, made-
moifelle, I thought you were at leaft a head taller ! '

An unhappy, a really unhappy woman, may weep
and fail to touch you; worfe than that, fome, trivial
disfigurement in her may incline you to laughter ; the
accent which is apt to her is to your ears dilTonant
and vexatious ; a movement which is habitual to her
makes her grief fhow ignobly and fulkily to you;
almoft all the violent pafTions lend themfelves to
grimaces which a taftelefs artift will copy but too faith-
fully, and which a great ador will avoid. In the very

The 'Paradox of lASiing. 23

whirlwind of paffion we would have a inan preferve his
manly dignity. And what is the efFeft of this heroic
effort ? To give relief and temperance to forrow. We
would have this heroine fall with a becoming grace,
that hero die like a gladiator of old in the midft of the
arena to the applaufe of the circus, with a noble grace,
with a fine and pifturefque attitude. And who will
execute this defign of ours ? The athlete who is
mattered by pain, fliattered by his own fenfibility, or
the athlete who is trained, who has felf-control, who,
as he breathes his laft figh, remembers the leffons of
the gymnafium ? Neither the gladiator of old nor thej
great aflor dies as people die in their beds : it is for .
them to fhow us another fort of death, a death to
move us ; and the critical fpeftator will feel that the
bare truth, the unadorned faft, would feem defpicable
and out of harmony with the poetry of the reft. , ''

Not, mark you, that 'Nature unadorned has not her
moments of fublimity ; but I fancy that if there is any
one fure to give and preferve their fublimity it is the
man who can feel it with his paiEon and his genius,
aijH capra djire it with compl ats-fetf-pofefltrm.

I will not, however, deny that there is a kind of
acquired or factitious fenfibility ; but if you would like
to know what I think about it, I hold it to be nearly
as dangerous as natural fenfibility. By little and little
it4eftdsjhe_adtor in (:o manner ifin and monotony. It is
an element oppofed to the variety of a great acStor's
functions. He muft often ftrip it from him ; and it is

24 T^he '•Paradox of «ABing.

only a head of iron which can make fuch a felf-
abnegation. Befides, it is far better for the eafe and
fiiccefs of his ftudy, for the catholicity of his talent and
the perfection of his playing, that there fhould be no
need of this fl:range parting of felf from felf. Its
extreme difficulty, confining each a<Sor to one fingle
line, leads perforce to a numerous company, where
every part is ill played ; unlefs, indeed, the natural
order of things is reverfed, and the pieces are made
for the a6tors. To my thinking the aftors, on the
contrary, ought to be made for the pieces.*

The Second.
But if a crowd of people colie£ted in the ftreet by
fome cataftrophe begin of a fudden, and each in his
own way, and without any concert, to exhibit a natural
fenfibility, they will give you a magnificent fhow, and
difplay you a thoufand types, valuable for fculpture,
mufic, and poetry.

The First.
True enough. But will this fliow compare with
one which is the refult of a p re-arranged plan, with the
h armony wh ich the artift will put into it when he

* Note by the publifhers of the fmall popular edition in
Paris : — ' Our modern authors have ended in always writing
their pieces for this or that aftor. Hence the ftiortlife which
their produftions will have.' The praftice, I may add, is,
unfortunately, by no means unknown in England.

"^he 'Paradox of ^ABing. 25

transfers it from the public way to his ftage or canvas ?
If you fay it will, then I fhall make you this anfwer :
What is this boafted magic of art if it only confifts in
fpoiling what both nature and chance have done better
than art ? Do you denv that one can improve on
nature ? Have you never, by way of praifmg a woman,
faid fhe is as lovely as one of Raphael's Madonnas ?
Have you never cried, on feeing a fine landfcape, ' It's
as good as a defcription in a novel ? ' Again, you are
talking to me of a reality. I am talking to you of an
imitation. You are talking to me of a pafling moment
in Nature. I am talking to you of a work of Art,
planned and compofed — a work which is built up by
degrees, and whibh lafts. Take now each of thefe
aftors ; change the fcene in the ftreet as you do on the
boards, and fhow me your perfonages left fucceflively
to themfelves, two by two or three by three. Leave
them to their own fwing ; make them full mafters of
their acSions ; and you will fee what a monflrous dis-
cord will refult. You will get over this by making
them rehearfe together. Quite fo. And then good-
bye to their natural fenfibility; and fo much the better.
A play is like any well-managed afTociation, in
which each individual facrifices himfelf for the general
good and effedt. And who will beft take the rrieafure
of the facrifice ? The enthufiaft or the fanatic ? Cer-
tainly not. I n fociety, the man of juf^gmpnf • r-n th-p-
ftage, the aftor whofe wits are_ always about him.
Your Icene in the itreeF has the fame relation to a

26 'The '•Paradox of aABing.

fcene on the ftage that a band of favages has to a
company of civilifed men.

Now is the time to talk to you of the difaftrous
influence which a mid^iling aflbciate has on a firft-rate
player. This player's conception is admirable ; but
he has to give up his ideal type in order to come down
to the level of the poor wretch who is playing with
him. Then he fays farewell to his ftudy and his tafte.
As happens with talks in the ftreet or at the firefide,
the principal fpeaker lowers his tone to that of his
companion. Or if you would like another illuftration,
take that of whift, where you lofe a deal of your own
fkill if you. cannot rely on your partner. More than
this, Clairon will tell you, if you aflc her, that Le Kain*
would malicioufly make her play badly or inadequately,
and that fhe would avenge herfelf by getting him
hiffed. (What, then, are two players who mutually

* Le Kain made his firft appearance ^t the Fran9ais in
September l750,.as Titus in Voltaire's Brutus. His fuccefs
was gained in fpite of natural difadvantages in voice and
perfonal appearance. He owed much to Clairon, but more
to unceafing ftudy and application. What helped him in the
firft inftance to pleafe critical tafte was that, like Garrick, he
was the firft to venture on varying the conventional fmg-fong
of declamation. Later he and Clairon reformed the ftage
coftume. Much of intereft will be found about him in the
lately publifhed pamphlet, Talma on the Jaor's Art. He was
great as a tragedian; good as a comedian. He died in
February 1778.

The T'aradox of liASiing. 27

fupport each other ? Two perfonages whofe types are,
in due proportion, either equal, or elfe in them the
fubordination demanded by the circumftances, as laid
down by the poet, is obferved. But for this there
would be an excefs, either of ftrength or of weaknefs;
and fuch a want of harmony as this is avoided more
frequently by the flrrong defcending to the weak than
by its raifing the weak to its 'own level. And pray,
do you know the reafon of the numberlefs rehearfals
that go on ? They are to ftrike the balance between
the different talents of the aftors, fo as to eftablifh a
general unity in the playing. When the vanity of an
individual interferes with this balance the refult is to
injure the efFeft and to fpoil your enjoyment ; for it is
feldom that the excellence of one aftor can atone for
the mediocrity, which it brings into relief, of his com-
panions./ I have known a great aftor fuffer from his
temperament in this way. The ftupid public faid he
was extravagant* inftead of difcerning that his aflbciate
was inadequate.

Come, you are a poet ; you have a piece for the
ftage ; and I leave you to choofe between aftors with
the foundeft judgments and the cooleft heads and
a£tors of fenfibility. But before you make up your
mind let me afk you one queflion. What is the time
of life for a great a£tor ? The age when one is full of
fire, when the blood boils in the veins, when the
flighteft check troubles one to the foul, when the wit
blazes at the veriefi: fpark ? I fancy not. The man

28 The 'Paradox of <tA5ling.

/hom ^Nature ftamps an adtor does not reach his top-
!iofl: height until he has had a long experience, until
/the fury of the paflions is fubdued, until the head is
(cool and the heart under control. The beft wine is
harfh and crude in its fermenting. It is by long lying
in the cafk that it grows generous. Qicero, Seneca,
and Plutarch, I take to reprefent the three ages of
compofition in men. Cicero is often but a blaze of
ftraw, pretty to look at; Seneca a fire of vine-branches,
hurtful to look at ; but when I ftir old Plutarch's
aflies I come upon the great coals of a fire that gives
me a gentle warmth.

Baron, when fixty years old, played the Earl of Effex,
Xiphares, Britannicus, and played them well. GaufEn,*
at fifty, bewitched her audiences in U Oracle et la Pupille.

* Mile. Gauffin was the daughter of Antoine Gauffin,
Baron's coachman, and Jeanne Pollet, cook to Adrienne
Lecouvreur. She made her deiut at the Comedie Franjaife
in 173 1. She appeared in Zaire and in Alzire, but flie is
bell remembered in the part of In^s in Irus de Caftro, a
tragedy by the innovator La Motte, which was much laughed
at at the time, though it made even the Regent weep. Mile.
Clairon thus defcribed her fifter-comedienne: 'Mile. Gauffin
had the lovelieft head, the mod touching voice. She had a
noble prefence, and all her movements had a childilh grace
which was irrefiftible ; but fhe was Mile. Gauffin in every-
thing. After a briUiant career, on the ftage and in the world,
this once famous adlrefs, who counted ftatefmen, poets, and
philofophers among her lovers, married an opera-dancer, who
ill-treated her, and Ihe died without a friend in 1767.

The 'Paradox of zASltng. 29

The Second.
She cannot have looked the part.

«

The First.
No ; and here you hit perhaps an infurmountable
obftacle to getting a perfeiSl ftage performance. For
that your player muft have trod the boards many
years, and fometimes a part calls for the blufh of
youth.* If there ever has been an aftrefs who at
feventeen could play Monimia, Dido, Pulcheria, Her-
mione, why then that is a miracle which will not be
repeated.! However, an old player does not become

* Baron, when eighty years old, came back to the flage
to play Rodrigue in the Cid. All went well until he had
to fay, —

' Je fois jeune, il eft vrai, mais aux ames bien ndes
La valeur n'attend pas le nombre des annees.'
The pit laughed once and twice. Baron came to the front
and faid : ' Gentlemen, I am about to begin again a third
time ; but I warn you, that if any one laughs I fhall leave
the ftage and never come back again.' After this all went
well, except that when he knelt to Chimene he could not
get up again.

t This is an allufion to Mile. Raucourt's firft appear-
ances in 1772. She was, as a matter of faft, nineteen at the
time. The publilhers of the French popular edition have
this note on the paflage : ' The inftance of Rachel has given
a triumphant lie to Diderot's affertion.' It may, however,
be fuppofed that the annotators did not mean that Rachel

30 'The T'aradox of zASiing.

ridiculous until his ftrength has quite left him, or until
his fine art will not avail to outweigh the contrail
between his real and his fuppofed age. As on the
ftage, fo is it in the world, where people never fall
foul of a woman's conduct unlefs fhe has neither talent
nor other kind of merit enough to veil her failing.

In our days Clairon and Mole* played when they

had nothing of her art to learn at feventeen. In our own
times, and in England, a very dillinguiflied aftor was in
the habit of faying that no man could poffibly play Romeo
until he was paft fifty, and that then he might perhaps be
a little old for the part.

* Mole, born in Paris in November 1734, made his
firft appearance at the Franjais in 1754. He was an example,
like Mrs. Siddons, of a player who triumphed completely
over a firft failure. CoUe wrote of him in his ^oarW, judging
him from his firft appearances, that he had a good appear-
ance and nothing more ; no paffion, no art, no eafe, no grace.
He was not admitted at firft, but he went into the provinces,
came back in 1760, and appeared fuccefsfully as Andronicus
in Campiftron's tragedy. From that date his fuccefs was
affured. He was extremely verfatile, and there is a ftory of
him which tells for 'the man with the paradox.' Lemercier
relates how he was carried away by Mole's afting, and rufhed
to congratulate him. Mole replied, ' I was not pleafed with
myfelf. I let myfelf go too much ; I felt the lituation too
deeply ; I became the perfonage inftead of the aftor playing
it ; I loft my felf-control. I was true to Nature as I might
be in private ; the perfpedlive of the ftage demands fomething
different. The piece is to be played again in a few days ;

'The 'Paradox of i/iSling. 3 1

firft appeared like automata ; afterwards they became
fine players.* Why was this ? Did they, think you,
acquire more foul, fenfibility, heart, in proportion as
they grew older ?

It is not long fince, after ten years' abfence from
the ftage, Clairon confented to a reappearance. If
fhe played but moderately, was it that Ihe had loft
her foul, her fenfibility, her heart ? Not at all ; what
flic had loft was the memory of her methods. I
appeal to the future to confirm me.

The Second.
What ! you believe flie will come back to the
ftage ?

The First.
Or die of boredom. What fubftitute is there for
the great paflions and the houfe's plaudits ?

If fuch or fuch an adtOr or aftrefs were as deeply
moved as people fuppofe, tell me if the one would
think of cafting an eye round the boxes, the other of

come and fee it then.' Lemercier went, and juft before the
great fcene Mole turned to him and faid, ' Now I have got
my felf-control: wait and fee.' Never, Lemercier adds, were
art and art's effeft more ftriking. Mole died in i8oz.

* This was fo, as many people well remember, in the
cafe of Signor Mario, who, beginning by being a ftick, ended
by being fo fine an aftor that even without his exquifite
voice and method of fmging he would have been a great
artift.

32 'The T*aradox of lASting.

fmiling to fome one at the wing, and, as almoft all of
them do, fpeaking ftraight to the pit ; and if the call-
boy would have to go to the green-room and interrupt
a third player in a hearty fit of laughter by telling him
that it's time to go and ftab himfelf ?

Come, I will fketch you a fcene between an adlor
and his wife who detefted each other ; a fcene of
tender and paffionate love ; a fcene publicly played
on the boards, juft as I am going to rehearfe it, or
maybe a trifle better ; a fcene in which both players
furpaffed themfelves — in which they excited continual
burfls of applaufe from pit and boxes ; a fcene inter-
rupted half-a-fcore of times with our clapping of hands
and exclamations of delight. Their triumph was won
in the third fcene of the fourth a£i: of Moliere's Le
Depit Amoureux. The aftor plays Erafte, Lucile's
lover. The ador's wife plays Lucile, Erafte's adored.

The Actor.

Non, non, ne croyez pas, madame.

Que je revienne encor vous parler de ma flamme.

(The Actress. I juji advife you.')
C'en eft fait.

(7 hope fo.')

Je me veux guerir et connais bien,
Ce que de votre coeur a poflede le mien.

(More than you de/erved.)
Un courroux fi conftant pour I'ombre d'une offenfe,

(Toa offend me ! Tou flatter your/elf.)
M'a trop bien dclairci de votre indifference :

'The 'Paradox of lASling. 33

Et je dois vous montrer que les traits du m^pris,

{Yes, the deep eft contempt.)
- Sont (enfibles furtout aux genereux elprits

(Tes, to generous minds.')
Je I'avouerai, mes yeux obfervaient dans ]es v6tres,
Des charmes qu'ils n'ont point trouves dans tous les autres.

{Not for want of looking.)
Et le raviflement oti j'etais de mes fers
Les aurait prdferes a des fceptres offerts.

{Tou have made a better bargain^
Je vivais tout en vous ;

{That's not the cafe ; you tell a lie.)

Et je I'avouerai meme
Peut-^tre qu'aprJs tout j'aurai quoique outrage,
Aflez de peine encore a m'en voir degage.

{That would be a bore.)
Poflible que malgre la cure qu'elle effaie
Mon ame faignera longtemps de cette plaie.

{Don't be afraid — mortification has fet in.)
Et qu'affranchi d'un joug qui faifait tout mon bien,
II faudra me r^foudre a n'aimer jamais rien.

{Tou' II find a way out of that.)
Mais enfin il n'importe; et puifque votre haine,
ChaiTe un cceur tant de fois que I'amour vous ramene,
C'eft la derniire ici des importunites
Que vous aurez jamais de mes voeux rebutes.

Thb Actress.
Vous pouvez faire aux miens la grace tout entiJre,
Monfieur, et m'epargner encor cette derniSre.

(The Actor. Sweetheart, you are an infolent baggage,
and you Jhall live'to repent this.)

D

34 ^he Paradox of <iABing.

The Actor.
Eh bien, madame ! eh bien ! ils feront fatisfaits,
Je romps avecque vous, et j'y romps pour jamais,
Puifque vous le voulez, que je perde la vie,
Lorfque de vous parler je reprendrai I'envie.

The Actress.
Tant mieux, c'eft m'obliger.

The Actor.

- Non, non, n'ayez pas peur.
(The Actress. Afraid of you '^ Not I /)
Que je fauffe parole ! Eufle-je un faible coeur,
Jufques a n'en pouvoir efFacer votre image,
Croyez que vous n'aurez jamais cet avantage

[Ill-luck, you mean.)
De me voir revenir.

The Actress.
Ce ferait bien en vain.
(The Actor. My darling, you are an arrant wretch;
but I'll teach ycu to behave^

The Actor.
Moi-meme de cent coups je percerais mon fein.

(The Actress. / wijh to Heaven you would!)
Si j'avais jamais fait cette baffeffe infigne.

{Why not, after Jo many others f)
De vous revoir apres ce traitement indigne.

The Actress.
Soit ; n'en parlons done plus.

And fo on, and fo on. After this double fcene— one
of love, the other of marriage— as Erafte led his adored

The T'aradox of iASling. 35

Lucile to the wing he fqueezed her arm fo hard as to
tear his fweet wife's flelli, and anfwered her complaints
with the bittereft infults.

The Second.
If I had heard thefe two fimuitaneous fcenes I don't
think I Ihould ever have fet foot in a playhoufe again.

TheJirst.

If you think this adhor and a£trefs were moved, let
me afk you, was it in the lovers' fcene, or the hufband
and wife's fcene, or both ? Nov(^ liften to- another
fcene between the fame aftrefs and another player —
her lover. While he is fpeaking his lines the a£lrefs
fays of her hufband, '■He is a brute. He called me . . .
/ cannot repeat what he called me.''

While fhe, in turn, gives her lines, her lover
replies, ' Aren't you accujlomed to it by this tirrte ? '

And fo on from fpeech to fpeech. ' Do we"-fup
together to-night }'' ' By all means ; but how can we
efcape obfervation ? '■ ' That you muft manage.' ' If
he finds out .!" 'It will make no odds ; and we
fliall have a quiet evening.' ' Whom fliall we afk ? '
' Whom you like.' ' The Chevalier, to begin with ;
he is our mainftay.' ' Talking of him, do you know
I could eafily get up a jealoufy of him ? ' 'And I
could as eafily give you caufe for it.'

Thus, then, thefe fenfitive creatures feemed to you
to be heart and foul in the fpeeches fpoken out loud,
which you heard, while really they were immerfed in

36 'The '•Paradox of lASiing.

the fpeeches fpoken under their breath, which you did
not hear. You exclaimed to yourfelf, ' It muft be
admitted that fhe is a charming acStrefs ; no one
liftens fo well as fhe does ; and flie plays with an intel-
ligence, a grace, a convidtion, a fine touch, a fenfibility,
by no means common.' I meanwhile laughed at your
exclamations.

Well, this acSrefs plays her hufband falfe with an-
other aftor, plays this other aftor falfe with the Chevalier,
and plays the Chevalier falfe with yet another perfon,
with whom the Chevalier catches her. The Chevalier
plots a mighty vengeance. He takes his place in the
lowefi: part of the ftage - feats * (the Comte de
Lauraguais had not then rid our ftage of this arrange-
ment). Stationed thus he looked forward to difcon-
certing the faithlefs wretch by his prefence, and by his

* ' Aux balcons, fur les gradins les plus has.' The meaning
of the phrafe may be baft explained by the following quota-
tion from Alfred de Muffet's effay on Tragedy, written in
1838 : — 'How is it that the tragedies of Racine, fine as they
are, appear, as it muft be confelTed they do, cold and formal,
like ftately ftatues half vivified? It is becaufe, in 1759, the
Count de Lauraguais procured the removal of feats for the
audience from the ftage, at a coft of thirty thoufand francs.
Now-a-days Andromache and Monimia ftand alone in their
vaft periftyles, and have an area of fixty feet to walk about
in. There are no more marquifes to furround the aftrefs
and crack a joke with her after every tirade, to pick up
Hermione's fan and cridcife Thefeus's ftockings.'

The Paradox of <iA5ling. 37

contemptuous looks to completely upfetting her, and
getting her hooted by the pit. The piece begins ;
the traitrefs appears ; fhe fees the Chevalier, and with-
out any difturbance to her acSling fhe fays to him, with
a fmile, ' Ah ! filly fellow, making a fufs for nothing ! '
The Chjsvalier fmiles in his turn, and fhe goes on :
' You are coming to-night ? ' He makes no anfwer,
and fhe continues: 'Let us make an end of this foolifh
quarrel ; and do you order up your carriage.' And do
you know in what fcene fhe put in all this \ It was
in one of the mofi: touching fcenes of La Chaulfee,*
a fcene in which the adirefs was convulfed with fobs
and made us drop fcalding tears. This ftartles you ;
yet it is an exacS flratement of faft.

The Second.
It's enough to ficken one of the flage.

The First.
And why, pray? If this kind of people could not-
achieve fuch feats, what bufinefs would they have on

* Nivelle de la Chauflee, born in 1692, is looked upon
as the founder of drames in France. Schlegel, fpeaking of
Voltaire's Enfant Prodigue and Nanine, fays that ' the affefting
drama had been before attempted in France by La Chauflee.'
Piron charafteriftically defcribed La Chauflee's plays as ' Les
Homelies du Reverend P^re La Chauflee.' Among his beil
plays are Le Prejuge a la Mode (to which Mile. Quinault is
faid to have contributed an afl), M'elanide, and La Gouvernante.
Li ChauITee died in 1754.

38 The Taradox of iABing.

the ftage ? Now I will tell you a thing I have adually .
feen.

Garrick * will put his head between two folding-
doors, and in the courfe of five or fix feconds his
expreffion will change fucceflively from wild delight
to temperate pleafure, from this to tranquillity, from
tranquillity to furprife, from furprife to blank afl:onifh-
ment, from that to forrow, from forrow to the air of
one overwhelmed, from that to fright, from fright to
horror, from horror to defpair, and thence he will go
up again to the point from which he ftarted. Can his
foul have experienced all thefe feelings, and played this
kind of fcale in concert with his face ? I don't be-
lieve it ; nor do you. If you afk this famous man,
who in himfelf is as well worth a vifit to England as
the ruins of Rome are worth a vifit to Italy ; if you
afk him, I fay, for the fcene of the Paftrycook's Boy
he will play it for you ; if you afked him direcftly
afterwards for the great fcene in Hamlet he would
play it for you. He was as ready to cry over the tarts
in the gutter as to follow the courfe of the air-drawn
dagger. f Can one laugh or cry at will ? One fhall
make a fhow of doing fo as well or ill as one can, and

* Garrick fpent fix months in Paris in the winter of
1764-5, when Diderot made his acquaintance.

I Here is an odd flip on tlie part of Diderot, who feems
to have mixed up Hamlet with Macbeth, and to have left
the miftake uncorrefted.

The Paradox of aASiing. 3 9

the completenefs of the illufion varies as one is or is /
not Garrick.

I play the fool in this fort fometimes, and with
fuccefs enough to take in men who have knocked
about the world a great deal. When I go diftra£led
over the pretended death of my filler in the fcene with
the Norman lawyer ; when in the fcene with the Firft
Clerk of the Admiralty I confefs to the paternity of the
child of a captain's wife; I feem exaftly as if I fuf-
fered grief and fhame : but do I fufFer either I Not a
bit more now that the thing is in definite ftage fhape
than originally in private company, where I invented
thefe two parts before putting them into a ftage play.*
What, then, is a great aitor \ A man who, having I
learnt the words fet down for him by the author, fools
you thoroughly, whether in tragedy or comedy.

* This refers to the P/an d'un DwertiJJement Domejtique,
to La Piece et le Prologue, and to the final form in which
Diderot put the ideas of the rough flcetch and the little piece,
that final form being the play, Efi-il Bon, eft-il Mechant?
The words are a clofe defcription of the part of M. Hardouin,
in which Diderot Iketched his own charafter. Baudelaire and
M. Champfleury tried, many years ago, to get the play afted,
the one at the Gaite, the other at the Theatre Fran^ais. It
feems obvious from the text that Diderot, before either La
Piece et le Prologue or Eft-il 'Bon, eft-il Mechant 1 was written,
was in the habit, as many people are now-a-days, of giving little
dramatic Iketches in private life, and that he himfelf played
M.Hardouin in Eft-il Bon, eft-il Mechant? in private theatricals.

40 The T'aradox of zA5ling.

Sedaine produces the Philofophe fans le Savoir.
I took more intereft in the piece's fuccefs than he did ;
envy of others' talents is not among my vices ; I have
enough indeed without it. I may call to witnefs all
my brothers in literature, if, whenever they have
deigned to confult me as to their work, I have not
done all I could to give a fitting anfwer to this high
mark of efteem. The Philofophe fans ie Savoir
trembles in the balance at the firfl: and fecond per-
formances, and I am very forry for it ; at the third it
goes like wildfire, and I am delighted. The next
morning I jump into a coach and rufli to find Sedaine.
It was winter and horribly cold, but I went everywhere
where I could hope to find him. I am told he is in
the depths of the Faubourg St. Antoine, and my
driver takes me there. I rufh up to him, I throw
my arms round his neck, my voice fails me, and tears
run down my cheeks. There you have the man of
i'enfibility, the middling man. Sedaine, referved and
ftill, looks at me and fays, 'Ah ! Monfieur Diderot,
you are fplendid ! ' There you have the man of
obfervation — the man of genius.

I told this ftory one day at table in the houfe of a
man whofe high talents marked him for the greateft
place in the State — in the houfe of M. Necker.* There

* Necker was not Direftor-General of Finance till 1777.
M. Aflezat, the admirable editor of the CEuvres completes de
Diderot, points out that the reference proves that Le Paradoxe

The '•Paradox of zASling. 41

were many men of letters there ; amongft them Mar-
montel, who is my friend as I am his. He faid to me
with an ironical air, ' Then, if Voltaire is overcome by
the mere narrative of a pathetic incident, and Sedaine
is undiflrurbed by the fight of a friend in tears, Voltaire
is the ordinary man and Sedaine the man of genius.'
This apoftrophe put me out, and reduced me to filence, ',
becaufe the man of fenfibility, like me, is wrapped up
in the objedlion to his argument, lofes his head, and '
does not find his anfwer until he is leaving the houfe./
A cold and felf-poflefled perfon might have replied to'
Marmontel, ' Your obfervation would come better
from other lips than yours, for you feel no more
than Sedaine, and you too turn out fine work. You,
being in the fame line with him, might have left it to
fome one elfe to be an impartial judge of his talent.
But, without preferring Sedaine to Voltaire, or Voltaire
to Sedaine, can you tell me what would have come
out of the brains of the author of the Philofophe fans
le Savoir^ of the Deferteur^ and of Paris Sauve, if,
inftead of pafling thirty-five years of his life in damping
plafter and cutting ftone, he had fpent all this time,
like Voltaire, like you and me, in reading and thinking
on Homer, Virgil, Taflb, Cicero, Demofthenes, and
Tacitus ? We could never learn to fee things as he
does ; he might have learnt to tell them as we do. I

fur k Com'edien, written in 1773, mull have been afterwards
retouched. It was not publilhed until 1830.

42 'The Paradox of <iA5iing.

look upon him as one of the lateft pofterity of Shak-
fpeare ; of Shakfpeare, whom I fhall compare neither
to the Apollo Belvedere nor to the Gladiator, nor to
Antinous, nor to the Farnefe Hercules, but rather to
the Saint Chriftopher in Notre Dame — a fhapelefs
Coloffus, coarfely fculptured, if you will. Yet we
might all walk between his legs and never a head
reach to his thighs.'

Now here is another inftance of a man reduced at
one moment to flat flupidity by fenfibility, and the
next rifing to fublimity by the felf-poffeflion following
the ftifling of his fenfibility.

A man of letters, whofe name I will hold back,
had fallen into great poverty.* He had a wealthy
brother, a theologian. I afked the poor brother why
the rich one did not help him. ' Becaufe,' he replied,
' he thinks very ill of me.' I obtained his leave to go
and fee the theologian. I went, was announced, and
told the theologian I had come to talk about his
brother. He took me by the hand, made me fit
down, and then pointed out that a man of fenfe takes
care to know the client whofe cafe he takes up. Then
he faid, with fome livelinefs, ' Do you know my
brother?' ' I think fo.' 'Do you know his conduft to
me?' T think fo.' 'You do? Then you know . . .'
and herewith my theologian fets off to tell me, with

* This is the recital of an aftual incident. Mme. de
Vandeul in her Memoirs gives the names and fome additional
circumftances.

'The Paradox of ^ASting. 43

aftonifliing rapidity and energy, a whole chain of in-
famies, the one more revolting than the other. My
fenfes feel confufed ; I am overwhelmed ; I lack
courage to plead for fo vile a wretch as is prefented to
my view. Luckily the theologian, growing prolix in
his philippic, gave me time to recover. By degrees the
man of fenfibility difappeared, and made way for the
man of eloquence ; for I may venture to fay that on
this occafion I was eloquent. ' Sir,' faid I coldly to
the theologian, ' your brother has done worfe than this,
and I admire you for concealing the worft of his in-
famies.' 'I conceal nothing.' 'To all you have told
me you might have added that one night, as you left
your houfe to go to matins, he caught you by the throat,
and drawing a dagger from beneath his drefs was about
to plunge it in your bofom.' ' He is quite capable of
it ; but I have not accufed him of it becaufe he never
did it.' Then rifing fuddenly, and fixing a firm, ftern
look on my theologian, I cried in accents of thunder,
and with all the force and emphafis indignation can
give, ' And had he done it, would that be a reafon for
refufing your brother bread ? ' The theologian, over-
borne, overwhelmed, confounded, held his peace,
walked about the room, came back to me, and granted
me an annual allowance for his brother.

(Is it at the moment when you have jufl: loft your
friend or your adored one that you fet to work at a
poem on your lofs ? No ! ill for him who at fuch a
moment takes pleafure in his talent. It is when the

44 T^he 'Paradox of zASiing.

fto rm of for Daw-is^-ver^whcruthe extrem e £)f fexifibilify
is dull ed^ when the jiyent is far behind us, when the
fo-uUs calm^ that one reme mbers one's eclipfed happi-
ne fs, that one is capable of appreciating one's lofs, that
memory an d imagination unite, one to retrace_the_
o ther to accentuate, the delights of a pafl: time : then
it is that one regains felf-poffeflion and expreflion. One
writes of one's falling tears, but they do not fall while
one is hunting a ftrong epithet that always efcapes one ;
one writes of one's falling tears, but they do not fall
while one is employed in polifhing one's verfe ; or if
the tears do flow the pen drops from the hand : one
falls to feeling, and one ceafes writing.

Again, it is with intenfe pleafure as with intenfe
pain — both are dumb. A tender-hearted and fenfitive
man fees again a friend he has miffed during a long
abfence ; the friend makes an unexpecSed reappearance,
and the other's heart is touched ; he rufhes to him, he
embraces him, he would fpeak, but cannot ; he ftam-
mers and trips over his words ; he fays he knows not
what, he does not hear the anfwer : if he could fee that
the delight is not mutual, how hurt he would be !
Judge, this pidlure being true, how untrue are the ftage
/ meetings, where both friends are fo full of intelligence
and felf-control. What could I not fay to you of the
infipid and eloquent difputes as to who is to die, or
rather who is not to die, l)ut that this text, on which
I fhould enlarge for ever, would take us far from our
fubjedl ? Enough has been faid for men of true and

The 'Paradox of <iASling. 45

fine tafte ; what I could add would teach nothing to
the reft. Now, who is to come to the refcue of
thefe abfurdities fo common on the ftage ? The adtor ?
and what aftor ?

The circumftances in which fenfibility is as hurtful
in fociety as on the ftage are a thoufand to one. Take
two lovers, both of whom have their declaration to
make. Who will come out of it beft ? Not I, I
promife you. I remember that I approached the be-
loved objeft with fear and trembling ; my heart beat,
my ideas grewconfufed, my voice failed me, I mangled
all I faid; I cried yes for no ; I made a thoufand
blunders ; I was illimitably inept ; I was abfurd from
top to toe, and the more I faw it, the more abfurd
I became. Meanwhile, under my very eyes, a gay
rival, light-hearted and agreeable, matter of himfelf,
pleafed with himfelf, lofing no opportunity for the fineft
flattery, made himfelf entertaining and agreeable, en-
joyed himfelf; he implored the touch of a hand which
was at once given him, he fometimes caught it without
afking leave, he kiffed it once and again. I the while,
alone in a corner, avoiding a fight which irritated me,
ftifling my fighs, cracking my fingers with grafping my
wrifts, plunged in melancholy, covered with a cold
fweat, I could neither fliow nor conceal my vexation.
People fay ofjg yc that it robo witt)r men of their w it^
and gives it to thofe who had none before: in other
words, makes fome people fenfitive and ftupid, others
cold and adventurous.

46 T^he Paradox of zASitng.

The man of fenfibility obeys the impulfe of Nature,
and gives nothing more or lefs than the cry of his
/very heart ; the moment he moderates or ftrengthens
'this cry he is no longer himfelf, he is an adlor.

The great after watches appearances ; the man of
fenfibility is his model ; he thinks over him, and dis-
covers by after-refleftion what it will be beft to add
or cut away. And fo from mere argument he goes to
aftion.

At the firfl: performance of Inh de Cajiro^ and at
the point where the children appear, the pit fell to
laughing. Duclos,*who was playing Inez, was angered,
and cried to the pit : ' Laugh, you blockheads, at the
fineft point in the piece ! ' The pit liftened, and was
filent ; the aftrefs went on with her part, and her
tears and the fpeftators' flowed together. Tell me
now. Can one pafs and repafs in this way from one
deep feeling to another, from forrow to anger, from
anger to forrow ? I cannot think it ; what I can very
well think is, that Duclos's anger was real, her forrow
, pretended.

* Mile. Duclos was born in 1670. Her firfl; appear-
■ ances were made, without much fuccefs, on the lyric ftage at
the Royal Academy of Mufic in Paris. In Oftober, 1693,
Ihe appeared at the Fran9ais as Juftine in Geta, a tragedy by
Pechantre. In 1696 flie was definitely inftalled as under-
fliudy for Mile, de Champmefle in the leading tragic parts.
She left the ftage in 1733, and died in 1748.

The 'Paradox of zASling. 47

Quinault-Dufrefne* plays the part of Severus in
Polyeutle. Sent by the Emperor to harry the Chriftians,
he confides to a friend his real feeling about the calum-
niated feft. Common fenfe demanded that this con-
fidence, which might coft him the prince's favour, his
honours, his fortune, his liberty, perhaps his life, fliould
be uttered in a low tone. The pit called out, ' Speak
louder ! ' He replied, ' And do you. Sirs, fpeak lefs
loud!' Had he really been Severus, could he fo
quickly have again become Quinault ? No, I tell
you, no. Only the man of felf-pofleflion, fuch as he
no doubt had, the exceptional aiElor, the player who is
before all a player, can fo drop and again afllime his mafk.

Lekain-Niniasf enters his father's tomb, and there
cuts his mother's throat ; he comes out with blood-
ftained hands. He is horror-ftricken ; his limbs tremble,

* Quinault-Dufrefne was born in 1693, and made his
firft appearance at the Fran^ais as Oreftes in Crebillon'a
EleStra, in Oftober 17 12. In the month of December fol-
lowing he became an after of leading parts, both in tragedy
and comedy. He left the ftage in March 1741, and died in
1759. ^"^ °^ ^'^ great parts on the ftage was Le Glorieux,
and in private life lie was in the habit of ftrutting into the
Cafe Procope and there enlarging upon his genius and his
beauty. He married Mile. Defeine, and it is told of him that
after he left the ftage he faid to his wife, 'I, Quinault-Dufrefoe,
who have conquered the world in the charafters of Caefar and
Alexander, my name, alas, is only known to my parrot ! '

I That is, of courfe, Le Kain as Ninias in Semiramis.

48 The 'Paradox of oASiing.

his eyes roll wildly, his. hair ftands on end. So does
yours to fee him ; terror feizes on you, you are as loft
as he is. However, Lekain-Ninias fees a diamond
drop which has fallen from, an* acStrefs's ear, and puflies
it towards the wing with his foot. And this adtor feels ?
Impoflible. You will not call him a bad aftor ? Of
courfe not. What, then, is Lekain-Ninias ? A cold
man, who is without feeling, but who imitates it
excellently. It is all very well for him to cry out,
'Where am I ?' I anfwer, 'Where are you? You
know well enough. You are on the boards, and you
are in the aft of kicking a diamond drop off the ftage.'
An atSor has a paflion for an aftrefs ; they come
together by chance in a ftage fcene of jealoufy. If
the aitor is poor the fcene will be improved ; if he is
a real player it will lofe : in fuch a cafe the fine a£tor
becomes himfelf, and is no longer the grand and ideal
type of a jealous man that he has ftriven for. The
proof that if this be fo the aftor and aftrefs lower
themfelves to everyday life is, that if they kept to their
ftilts they would laugh in each other's faces ; the
bombaftic jealoufy of tragedy would feem to them a
mere clowning of their own.

The Second.
All the fame there are triiths of Nature.

The First.
Yes, as in a ftatue by a fculptor who has given a

The T*aradox of zASitng. 49

clofe tranfcript of a bad model: You may admire the
exaftitude, but the whole efFeft is poor and wretched.

I will g o further^ — A jTure waj ma-a'^4H-a-€PaBit>ed,
mean ftyle, is to play one's owii _chaca^er. You are, ^
let us fay, a tartufe, a mifer, a mifanthrope ; you may
play your part well enough, but you will not come
near what the poet has done. He has created the
Tartufe, the Mifer, the Mifanthrope.

The Second.
And how do you make out the difference between
a tartufe and the Tartufe ?

The First.
Billard, the clerk, is a tartufe; Grizel, the abbe, is
a tartufe, but he is not the Tartufe. Toinard, the
banker, was a mifer, but he was not the Mifer. The
Mifer, the Tartufe, were drawn from the Toinards
and Grizels in the world ; th ey contain their broadef
and mof l- mark ed^eaturf S) h^t thprp is jn them , nc
ex afl portrait of a given individual ; and .thaLis__wh;J
t he real people don't reco gnife themfelxes in the^
ty^gs— The comedy that d epends o n ' go,' even the
comedy of character, is afTexaggeratio^j. The fun of
fociety is a light froth, wntch evaporates on the ftage ;
the fun of the ftage is an edged tool whic h would cu t
deep in focietyr !~I''or imafrinarv beings we have not
the confideration we are bound to have for real beings.
.^Saiii£_dfiali.with_gtartu|e ; comedy with the Tar-

E

50 T^he T'aradox of aASiing.

tufe. S atire a tta&ks- the—Kicious ; CQrpedy attacks a
vice^ If there had been only one or two Precieufes
ridicules in the world they would have aiForded matter
for a fatire, but not for a comedy.

Go to La Grenee,* and afk him for a picSture of
Painting; he will think he has done what you want
when he has put on his canvas a woman before an
eafel with her thumb through a palette and a brufh in
her hand. Afk him for Philofophy ; he will think he
has given it you by producing a woman in carelefs
attire refting her elbow on a defk by lamplight, dis-
hevelled and thoughtful, reading or meditating. Afk
him for Poetry ; he will paint the fame woman with a
laurel-wreath round her brows and a roll of manufcript
in her hand. For Mufic^ you fhall fee the fame
woman with a lyre inflread of the roll. Afk him for
Beauty ; aflc the fame from a cleverer man than him ;
and, unlei's I am much miflaken, he will be perfuaded
that all you want from his art is a pifture of a hand-
fome woman. The fame fault is common to your
aftor and to this painter ; and I would fay to them,
' Your pifture, your a<Jting, are mere portraits of indi-
viduals far below the general idea traced by the poet
and the ideal type of which I hoped to have a repre-
fentation. This lady of yours is as handfome as you
like ; but fhe is not Beauty. There is the fame

* A fafliionable painter of the time, whofe hiftory, curious
as it was, need not here be enlarged upon.

The 'Paradox of zASling. 5 1

difference between your work and your model as be-
tween your model and the type.'

The Second.
But, after all, this ideal type may be a phantom !

The First.
No.

The Second.
But fince it is ideal it is not real ; and you cannot
underftand a thing that is impalpable.

The First.
True. But let us take an art, fay fculpture, at its
beginning. It copied the firfl: model that came to
hand. Then it faw that there were better models, and
took them for choice. Then it correfled firfl: t helc.
obvious^^tliexi-tlieir lefs-obAdousAuItj-uMtii -by-dint- of
long, ftydy it_arrived_at-a Jigure which was nojongeji
nature.-

The Second.
Why, pray ?

The First.
Becaufe the development of a machine fo complex
as the human body cannot be regular. Go to the
Tuileries or the Champs Elyfees on a fete-day; look at
all the women in the walks, and you will not find one
in whom the two corners of the mouth are exaftjy
alike. Titian's Danae is a portrait ; the Love at the
foot of the couch is an ideal. In a pifture of Raphael's,

5 2 The 'Paradox of <iA5img.

which went from M. de Thiers' collection to Catherine
the Second's, St. Jofeph is a common-place man ; the
Virgin is a real and a beautiful woman ; the infant
Chrift is an ideal. But if you would like to know
more as to thefe fpeculative principles of art I will fend
you my Salons.

The Second.
I have heard the work praifed by a man of fine
tafl:e and keen difcernment.

The First.
M. Suard.

The Second.
And by a woman who combines an angel's purity
with the fineft tafte.

The First.
Madame Necker.

The Second.
Let us go back to our fubjedi.

The First.
By all means ; though I would rather fing the
praifes of virtue than difcufs fomewhat idle queftions.

The Second.
Quinault-Dufrefnej a boafter by nature, played the
Boafter* fplendidly.

* Le Glorieux.

T^he 'Paradox of zABing. 53

The First.
You are right ; but how do you know that he was
playing his own felf? Anr| ^yViy fh'^iild n ot Nature
havejiaHp a hoaCbei^. very near-^he line between- the
fii^p rpal anrl \\\f finp jHpal., the line on_which the
differentJcliools— find- theif-exercife-ground ?

The Second.
I do not underftand you.

The First.
I have explained myfelf more fully in my Salons^
in which I commend to your notice the pafTage on
Beauty in general. Meanwhile tell me this : Is Qui-
nault-Dufrefne Orofmanes ? No. However, who
has taken his place, or ever will take his place, in this
part ? Was he the man for the Prejuge a la Mode ?
No. Yet with how much truth he played it !

The Second.

According to you the great aftor is everything and
nothing.

The First.

Perhaps it is jufl: becaufe he is nothing that he is
before all everything. His own fpecial fhape never
interferes with the fhapes he aflumes.

Among all thofe who have praftifed the fine and
valuable profeffion of aftors or lay preachers, one of
the moft fl:erling charafters, one who fhowed it the
moft in his phyfiognomy, his tone, his bearing, the

54 T^he 'Paradox of ^Bing.

brother of the Diable Boiteux of Gil Bias, of the
Bachelier de Salamanque^ Montmefnil * . . . .

The Second.
Son of Le Sage, t^e father of the illuftrious family
you have named.

The First.
. . . played, with equal fuccefs, Ariftides in the
Pupille, Tartufe in the comedy fo named, Mafcarille in
the Fourberies de Scapin, the lawyer, or M. Guillaume,
in the farce of Patel'in.

The Second.
I have feen him.

The First.
And to your aftonifliment, for all thefe different
parts he had a fitting vifage. This did not come by
Nature, for Nature had given him but one, his own ;
the others he drew from Art.

* Montmenil, fon of the celebrated Le Sage, made his
firft appearance at the Frangais in May 1726, as Mafcarille
in VEtourdi. He gained fome fuccefs, but his fellow-aftors
counfelled him to work in the provinces. This he did, re-
appearing in Paris in 1728 as Hedlor in Le Joueur. Thence-
forward his fuccefs was not doubtful. Montmenil, Le
Mazurier fays, played capitally U Avocat Patelin, Turcaret,
the Valet in Les Bourgeoijes a la Mode, M. Delorme in Les
Trot! Coufines, ' et en general tous les payfans.' He died
fuddenly in September 1743.

'The '•Paradox of zASling. §^

Is there fuch a thing as artificia l fenfibilitv ? Con-
fider, fenfibility, whether acquired or inborn, is not in
place in all charafters. What, then, is the quality
acquired which makes an aftor great in VAvare^
le Joueur^ le Flatteur, h Grandeur^ le Medec'in malgre
lui (the leaft fenfitive or moral perfonage yet devifed
by a poet), le Bourgeois Gentilhomme, le Malade Ima-
'■ ginaire^ le Casur Imaginaire — in Nero, in Mithridates,
in Atreus, in Phocas, in Sertorius, and in a hofl: of
other characters, tragic and comic, where fenfibility is
diametrically oppofed to the fpirit of the part ? it 4s-
t he faculty o f Ifnnwii^p; and — imitating all natw-es.

Rplievp mp, WP "pp'^ H"*' miiUiply raufpg wKen- ene

caufe a ccounts for all appearances.

Sometimes the^poet feels more deeply than the
ador; fometimes, and perhaps oftener, the acSor's
conception is ftronger than the poet's ; and there is
nothing truer than Voltaire's exclamation, when he
heard Clairon in a piece of his, '■Did I really write
that?' Does Clairon know more about it than Voltaire?
Anyhow, at that moment the ideal type in the fpeaking
of the part went well beyond the poet's ideal type in
the writing of it. But this ideal type was not Clairon.
Where, then, lay her talent? In imagining a mighty
fhape, and in copying it with genius, t She imitated
the movement, the aftion, the gefture, the whole em-
bodiment of a being far greater than herfelf^; She had (
learnt thatiEfchines,repeating a fpeech ofDemofthenes, ^
could never reproduce ' the roar of the brute.' He

56 The Taradox of <iA3iing.

faid to his difciples, ' If this touches you, or nearly,
what would have been the effedt fi audivijfetls beJUam
mugientem f The poet had engendered the monfter,
Clairon made it roar.

It would be a ftrange abufe of language to give
the name of fenfibility to this faculty of reproducing
all natures, even ferocious natures. Se,nfi;biliJ;yT--at:
cordingjojlie j)nIy_acc£.ptation_3iel^i_yen of the^term,
is, as it feems to me, that difpofition which accom-
panies organ ic weaknefs,, which-falLo ws on eafy a ffeftion
of the di aphragm^jan-jaKacit y of i magination, on deli^
c jcy of nerves, which inclines one to being compas-
fionate, to bein g horrified, to adm irjition,,_to_fearj_to
b^in g upfe t_, XQ- teaia^^JxiJain ti nga, to refcues, to fligh ts ,
t o_exclama tions, to lofs of felf-con trol , to bei jig^CQi;:.
tejn Btuous, difdainful, to having no c l ear notion o f
what is true, good, and fine, to being unjuft, to g oing
XQsA. Multiply fouls of fenfibility, and you will
multiply in the fame proportion good and bad aftions
of every kind, extravagant praife and extravagant
blame.

Work, poets, for a nation given to vapours, and
fenfitive ; content yourfelves with the tender, har-
monious, and touching elegies of Racine ; this nation
would flee the butcheries of Shakfpeare ; its feeble
fpirit cannot ftand violent fhocks ; beware of offering
it too vigorous a pidlure ; rehearfe to it, if you will,

'Le fils tout degouttant du meurtre de fon p^re,
Et fa t^te a la main, demandant fon falaire.'

The Taradox of ^ASiing. 57

But go no further. If you dared to fay with Homer,
' Whither goeft thou, unhappy one ? Thou know'ft
not, then, that it is to me Heaven fends the children of
ill-fated fathers; thou wilt not receive thy mother's
laft embraces ; e'en now I fee thee ftretched on the
earth ; the birds of prey, grouped round thy corpfe, tear
out thine eyes, flapping their wings with delight' — If
you faid this all the women, turning away their heads,
would cry, ' Oh ! horrible ! ' . . . And it would be all
the worfe if this fpeech, delivered by a great adior,
had all the ftrength of truthful accent.

The Second.
I am tempted to interrupt you to afk what you
think of the bowl prefented to Gabrielle de Vergy,*
who faw in it her lover's bleeding heart.

The First.
I fliall anfwer you that we muft be confiftent, and
if we are revolted at this fpeftacle neither muft we
permit QEdipus to fhow himfelf with his eyes torn
out, while we muft drive Philoftetes, tormented by
his wound, and expreffing his pain with inarticulate
cries, ofF the ftage. The ancients had, as I think, an
idea of tragedy different from ours ; and thefe ancients
— that is the Greeks, that is the Athenians, this fine

* The troubadour ftory of Gabrielle de Vergy is told,
with the lady's name given as Margaret de Rouffillon, in
chap. xxix. of Scott's Anne of Geierftein.

58 'The '•Paradox of aASting.

people, who have left us models in every dire£tion
of art unequalled by other nations — ^fchylus, I fay,
Sophocles, Euripides, v^ere not at wrork for years
together to produce the trifling palling impreflions
which difappear in the gaiety of a fupper- party. It
was their objedt to roufe a deep grief for the lot of
the ill-fated ; it was their objecS not only to amufe
their fellow- citizens but alfo to make them better.
Were they wrong.? Were they right ? To produce
their efFedl they made the Eumenides rufli on the
fcene, tracking the parricide and guided by the fcent of
blood in their noftrils. They had too much tafte to
approve the imbroglios, the jugglings with daggers,
which are fit only for children. A tragedy is, to my
thinking, nothing but a fine page of hiftory divided
into a certain number of marked periods. Thus, we
are waiting for the flieriff* He arrives. He queftions
the fquire of the village. He propofes apoftafy to
him. The other refufes. He condemns him to death.
He fends him to prifon. The daughter implores mercy
for her father. The flieriiF will grant it ; but on a
revolting condition. The fquire is put to death. The

* All this talk about Le Sh'erif refers direftly to one of
Diderot's fcenarios for plays which he never aftually wrote.
Thitfcenario of Le Sherif is publiflied in the eighth volume
of M. Aflezat's edition of the CEuvres completes de Diderot
(Gamier, Paris). It would, fo far as I can fee, have made a
curioufly bad play.

T!he 'Paradox of zASi'mg. 59

inhabitants rufli on the fheriffi He flies before them.
The lover of the fquire's daughter ftrikes him dead
with one dagger thruft, and the abominable fanatic
dies curfed by all around him. A poet does not need
much more material for a great work. Suppofe the
daughter goes to her mother's tomb to learn her duty to
the author of her being ; fuppofe that fhe is in doubt
about the facrifice of honour demanded from her; that in
this doubt fhe keeps her lover aloof, and will not hear
the language of his paffion ; that ftie obtains leave to
vifit her father in prifon ; that her father wiflies to
marry her and Jier lover, and fhe refufes ; that fhe
does facrifice her honour, and her father is put to
death the while ; that you are unaware of her fate until
her lover, when fhe is diftraited with grief at her
father's death, learns what fhe has done to fave him ;
that then the fherifF comes in hunted by the mob
and is ftruck down by the lover. There you have part
of the details of fuch a work.

The Second.
Part ?

The First.
Yes, -part. Will not the young lovers propofe
flight to the fquire ? Will not the villagers propofe to
him to exterminate the fheriff and his fatellites ? Will
there not be a priefl: who preaches toleration ? And
in the midfl: of this terrible day will the lover be idle ?
And cannot one fuppofe certain ties between thefe

6o The T^aradox of zASiing.

charafters, and make fomething out of fuch tiesf
Why (hould not the flierifF have been a fuitor of the
fquire's daughter ? Why fhould he not return with ven-
geance in his heart againft the fquire, who has turned
him out of the place, and the daughter, who has
fcorned his fuit ? What important incidents one can
get out of the fimpleft fubjeft if one has patience to
think it over ! What colour one can give them if one
is eloquent ! And you cannot be a dramatic poet with-
out being eloquent. And do you fuppofe I fhan't have
a fine ftage efFeft ? The (herifF's interrogatory, for
inftance, will be given with all the pomp of circum-
ftance. No, leave the ftaging to me, and fo an end to
this digreffion.

1 take thee to witnefs, Rofcius of England, cele-
brated Garrick; thee, who by the unanimous confentof
all exifting nations art held for the greatefl: aftor they
have known ! Now render homage to truth. Haft
thou not told me that, defpite thy depth of feeling,
thy aftion would be weak if, whatever paflion or
' character thou hadft to render, thou couldft not raife
thyfelf by the power of thought to the grandeur of a
Homeric fiiape with which thou foughteft to identify
thyfelf? When I replied that it was not then from
thine own type thou didft play, confefs thine anfwer.
Didft not avow avoiding this with care, and fay that
thy playing was aftounding only becaufe thou didft
conftantly exhibit a creature of the imagination which
was not thyfelf?

'The 'Paradox of oASiing. 6i

The Second.
A great aftor's foul is formed of the fubtle element
with which a certain philofopher filled fpace, an element
neither cold nor hot, heavy nor light, which aiFefts no
definite fliape, and, capable of afluming all, keeps
none.

The First.

A great adtor is neither a pianoforte, nor a harp,
nor a fpinnet, nor a violin, nor a violoncello ; he has
no key peculiar to him ; he takes the key and the tone j

I put a high value on the talent of a great aftor ; he is J
a rare being — as rare as, and perhaps greater than, a
poet.

He who in fociety makes it his objeft, and un-*"]
luckily has the fkill, to pleafe every one, is nothing, /
has nothing that belongs to him, nothing to diftinguifli L
him, to delight fome and weary others. He is always f
talking, and always talking well ; he is an adulator by 1
profeflion, j u* is n . gre a t r mirtier, he is a great a.&.ot ,.^

The Second.
A great courtier, accuftomed fince he firft drew
breath to play the part of a moft ingenious puppet,*
takes every kind of fhape at the pull of the ftring in
his mailer's hands.

* Pantin. A figure cut out in card, with ftrings attached
to it. I have ufed the word puppet to avoid roundabout
expreffion.

62 T^he 'Paradox of zASling.

The First.
A great aitor is alfo a moft ingenious puppet, and
his ftrings are held by the poet, who at each line indi-
cates the true form he muft take.

The Second.
So then a courtier, an aiSor, who can take only
one form, however beautiful, however attractive it
may be, are a couple of wretched pafleboard figures t

The First.
I have no thought of calumniating a profeflion I
like and efteem^I mean, the adlor's. 1 fliould be in
defpair if a mifunderftanding of my obfervations caft a
fhade of contempt on men of a rare talent and a true
ufefulnefs, on the fcourges of abfurdity and vice, on the
moft eloquent preachers of honefty and virtue, on the
rod which the man of genius wields to chaftife knaves
^and fools. But look around you, and you will fee that
people of never-failing gaiety have neither great faults

nor great merits ; that as a rulo people who lay ih 1:11 1 .

fc lves out to be agrreeable are frivolous peop le, without ^ .
any-ibw^d^Mi nc i p lp ; a nd-thatithofe who,. lik€ -certain
perfons who mix in our foc jety, have n o ch a rafter,
excel in playing all.

TIas'not~tKe aSor a father, a mother, a wife, chil-
dren, brothers, fitters, acquaintances, friends, a mis-
trefs.? If he were endowed with that exquifite fenfi-
bility which people regard as the thing principally

'The 'Paradox of tASling. 63

needed for his profeflion, harafled and ftruck like us with
an infinity of troubles in quick fucceflion, which feme-
times wither and fometimes tear our hearts, how manj^
days would he have left to devote to our amufement^
Mighty few. The Groom of the Chambers would
vainly interpofe his fovereignty, the aftor's ftate would
often make him anfwer, ' My lord, L cannot laugh to-
day/ or, ' It is over cares other than Agamemnon's
that I would weep.' It is not known, however, that
the troubles of life, common to acSors as to us, and far
more oppofed to the free exercife of their calling, often
interrupt them.

In focie ty. unlefs they are buffoons. I find them,,
poliftied, cauftic, and cold ; proud^li ght of behaviou r,
fp^ndthritts, lelt-RTreretted ; Itruck ratherby our ab furdL. ,
ties than touched by our misfortunes ; mafters of th env^
felyes at the fpediacle of an untoward incide nt J3t Jthe
re cital of a pathetic ftory; ifolated, vagabonds, at the
com mand of the great ; little conduft, ~no 'fFferidfs,
fcarce any of thofe holy and tender ties which aflbciate
us ill the pains and pleafures of another, who in turn
fhares our own. I have often feen an acSor laugh off
the fl:age ; I do not remember to have ever feen one
weep. What do they, then, with this fenfibility that
they arrogate and that people grant them ? Do they
leave it o n the ftage at their ex it, to take it up,again
at their next entrance ?

What makes them flip on the fock or the bufkin ?
Want of education, poverty, a libertine fpirit. The

64 T^he 'Paradox of <iA Sling.

'ftage is a refource, never a choice. Never did aftor
[jbecome fo from love of virtue, from defire to be ufeful
in the world, or to ferve his country or family; never
from any of the honourable motives which might in-
cline a right mind, a feeling heart, a fenfitive foul, to fo
line a profeiSon.

I myfelf, in my young days, hefitated between the
Sorbonne and the ftage. In the bittereft depth of
winter I ufed to go and recite aloud parts in Moliere
and in Corneille in the folitary alleys of the Luxem-
bourg. What was my projeft ? To gain applaufe ?
Perhaps. To mix on intimate terms with aftreffes
whom I found charming, and who I knew were not
ftraitlaced ? Certainly. I know not what I would
not have done to pleafe Gauflin, who was then making
her firfi: appearance, and was beauty itfelf ; or Daiige-
ville,* who on the ftage was fo full of charm.

It has been faid that afl-ors have nr» rharafl-pr, be-
c aufe in playing all characte rs they lofe that which
Ijature ^ave them, and they become falfe juft as the
dofloTjjheJ'urgeon, and the butcher, become hardened.

* Mile. Dangeville was born in Paris in 1714. Daughter
of a ballet-malter and an aftrefs, flie made her firft appear-
ance at the Franjais at the age of feven and a half. Her
official firft appearance was made in 1730, as Lifette in
Deftouches's M'edifant. She was admitted two months after-
wards, remained on the ftage till 1763, and died in 1796,
The editor of the M'emoires Secrets, echoing public opinion.

Hhe 'Paradox of ^ASiing. 65

I fancy that here caufe is confounded with efFe£t, and
that'they are fit to play all charadlers becaufe they havej

"■^ The Second.

A perfon does not become cruel becaufe he is an
executioner ; but an executioner becaufe he is cruel.

The First,

It is all very well for me to look into thefe perfons\

chara£lers ; I fee nothing in them to diftinguifli them I

from their fellow-citizens except a vanity which mig ht

be termed infolence, a jealoufy which fills their com-

t

pany wItH'trouble and hatred, remaps ot aJi aflbcia'
tions there^is not one where the aflbciates' common in^
tereft Tind ttlflt nfthe pi i hlir i ti m nrp fonftantly and mffrp ■
cle arly facrificed t " wrp'"''^'"^ \\t^r\t^ pr^totU LM^ Env y
is worfe among them than among authors : this is
faying a good deal, but it is true. One poet more
eafily forgives another the fuccefs of a piece than one
adirefs forgives another the applaufe which marks her
out for fome illufl:rious or rich debauchee. You find
them great on the ftage becaufe, as you fay, they have

wrote of her : ' You alone, inimitable Dangeville, never grow
old. So frefti, fo novel are you, that each time we fee you we
take to be the firit time. Nature has Ihowered her gifts on
you, as though Art had refufed to endow you ; and Art has
haftened to enrich you with her perfeftion as though Nature
had granted you nought.' Her firft appearances were fo
fuccefsful that it was faid of her at the time that Ihe began
where great adrefles left off!

F

66 The 'Paradox of nASiing.

foul ; I find them little and mean in fociety becaufe
Vhey have none : with the words and the tone of
Camille or the elder Horace they have ever the con-
duct of Frofine or Sganarelle. Now, to eflimate what
is at the bottom of their hearts, mufi: I rely on the
borrowed reports that are fo admirably tricked out, or
on the nature of adtors and the tenor of their life ?

The Second.
But of old Moliere, the Quinaults, Montmefnil,
and to-day Brifart* and Caillot,! who is equally at home
in great and little company, to whofe keeping you
would fearleflly confide your fecrets and your purfe, to
whom you would trufl: your wife's honour and your
daughter's innocence, with much more fecurity than
you would to this or that great gentleman of the Court
or this or that venerated priefl: of our altar . . .

* Brizard was born in April 1 72 1, and began his career
as an adlor by playing in comedy in the provinces. He made
his firft appearance at the Franjais in July 1757, as Alphonfe
in La Motte's tragedy, Ines de Caftro. He was admitted in the
following year, left the ftage in 1786, and died in 1791.
The Memoires Secrets defcribe him thus : ' He has the
majefty of the king, the fublimity of the pontiff, the tender-
nefs or fternnefs of the father. He is a very great aftor, who
combines force with pathos, fire with feeling.'

f An account of the great aftor Caillot will be found
later on in a note on a pafTage referring to him in greater
detail.

The Paradox of zAEling. 67

The First.

The praife is not overcharged. What annoys me is,
that I do not hear you cite a greater number of aftors
who deferve or have deferved it. What annoys me \
is, that among all thefe poflelTors ex-officio of one
quality, which is the valuable and fruitful fource of
fo many others, an a£lor who is a man of honouj^ .
an aftrefs who is'_a woma n__of virtue, are fuc h_rarg/
phenomena.^ I <

Let us conclude from this that it is untrue that they
have an exclufive claim to this quality,aad that the fenfi
bility which would overcome them in private life as o:
the ftage, if they were endowed with it, is neither th
bafis of their charafter nor the caufe of their fuccefi
that it belongs to them neither more nor lefs tha
Jo any other clafs of people ; and one fees fo fe
ereat adtors becaufe parents do not bring up their chil-
/dren for the flage ; becaufe people do not prepare for
I it by an education begun in youth ; and a company of
vaftors is not — as it would have to be among a people
who attached the due importance, honour, and recom-
penfe to the funftion offpeaking to aflembled multi-
tudes who come t o be taught, amnrpH^ and rnr rpAffl

a corporation formed like other commonwealths, of
perfons chofen from every kind of good family, and led
to the ftage as to the fervices, the law, or the church,
by tafte or choice, and with the approval of their
natural guardians.t

68 T^he 'Paradox of <iA£iing.

The Second.
The degradation of modern acSors is, it feems to
me, an unlucky heritage from the old aftors.

The First.
I think fo.

The Second.
If plays had been invented in thefe days, when
people have more fenfible notions, perhaps . . . But
you are not liftening : what are you thinking of?

The First.
I am following up my firfi: idea, and thinking of
t he influ ence pl ays migTit havp nn g ood tafte and
morals if players wprp ppnpip nf pnfif^rm janrl their
profefl inn a n hnn aurprl nr i r;^ __y^hprp is the poet
would dare propofe to nien of birth to publicly repeat
coarfe or ftupid fpeeches ? — to women, of character not
much lighter than the women we know, to impudently
utter before a quantity of lifteners fuch things as they
would blufh to hear in private at their firefide ? If
the conditions were altered our playwriters would foon
attain to a purity, a delicacy, a grace, that they are
further from than perhaps they think. Can you doubt
that it would re-a£t upon the national tone ?

The Second.
One might perhaps objed: that the pieces, old and
new, which your well-behaved players would exclude

The Paradox of iABing. 69

from their repertory, are the very ones we play in
private theatricals.

The First.
And what difference does it make if our fellow-
citizens lower themfelves to the level of the moft
wretched players ? Would it be the lefs ufeful, the
lefs defirable, that our adors fliould raife themfelves
to the level of the beft citizens ?

The Second.
The change is not eafy.

The First.
When I gave the Pne de Famille, the magiftrate
of police exhorted me to follow the career.

The Second.
Why did you not ?

The First.
Becaufe, not h aving; af;hiRvpd the furrefs whirh T
had pr omifed myfelf wi th it, and not fla ttering myfelf
that 1 could do much better, I grew di fgulted^ th "a
cabling for which I thought I had not enough talent.

The Second.
And why did this piece, which nowadays fills the
houfe before half-paft four, and which the players
always put up when they want a thoufand crowns,
have fo lukewarm a welcome at firft ?

70 'The T'aradox of zABing.

The First.
Some faid that our habits were too faftitious to fuit
themfelves to a ftyle fo fimple ; too corrupt to tafte a
ftyle fo virtuous.

The Second.
That was not without a fhow of truth.

The First.
} But experience has fhown that it was not true,
/for we have grown no better. Befides, the true, th^
honefl- has fuch an afcendency over us, that if a poet's
work includes two characters in this kind, and if he
has genius, his fuccefs will be only the more affured./
It is, above all, v yfaen all is falfe that we love the true j
it is, above all, when all is corrupt that the firage be-
comes pureft. The citizen who prelents "hmifelf at
jtnfe door of a theatre leaves his vices there, and only
takes them up again as he goes out. There he is juft.
Impartial, a good friend, a lover of virtue ; and I have
often feen by my fide bad fellows deeply indignant at
a£i:ions which they would not have failed to commit
had they found themfelves in the fame circumftances
in which the poet had placed the perfonage they

f abhorred. If I did not fucceed at firft it was becaufe
the flyle was new to audience and a<3:ors ; becaufe
there was a ftrong prejudice, ftill exifting, againft
what people call tearful comedy ; becaufe I had a
crowd of enemies at court, in town, among magiftrates,
among Churchmen, among men of letters,

The Paradox of ^Sling. ji

The Second,
And how did you incur fo much enmity ?

The First.
Upon my word I don't know, for I have not
written fatires on great or fmali, and I have croffed no
man on the path of fortune and dignities. It is tru^
that I was one of the pe oglejralj ed Philofo ph ers, who ,
were then viewed as dangerous citizens, and o n whom
ffielGaiceJiniaentiet loofe two or three wretched fub-
alterns_withQut„virtue, without infight, and, what is -
worfe, without talent. But enough of that.

The Second.
To fay nothing of the fadi that thefe philofophers
had made things more difficult for poets and men of
letters in general, it was no longer poffible to make
one's felf diftinguiflied by knowing how to turn out a
madrigal or a nafly couplet.

The First.
That may be. A young rake, inftead of feduloufly
haunting the ftudio of the painter, the fculptor, the
artift who has adopted him, has wafted the beft years
of his life, and at twenty he has no refources and no
talent. What is he to become ? A foldier or an aflor.
You find him, then, enrolled in a country company.
He ftroUs it until he can promife himfelf an appearance
in the capital. An unhappy creature has wallowed in

72 The "Paradox of aABing.

gutter debauchery ; tired of the moft abjedi of condi-
tions, that of a low courtefan, fhe learns a kw parts by
heart ; fhe goes one morning to Clairon, as the flave of
old ufed to go to the aedile or the praetor. Clairon
takes her by the hand, makes her turn round, touches
her with her wand, and fays to her, ' Go and make the
gaping crowd laugh or cry.'

They are excommunicated. The public, which
cannot do without them, defpifes them. They are
flaves, conftantly dreading the rod of another flave.
Think you that the marks of fo continual a degradation
can fail to have efFeft, and that under the burden of
fhame the foul can be ftrong enough to reach the
heights of Corneille .''

The defpotifm that people pra£life to them they
pratStife in turn to authors, and I know not which is
the meaner, the infolent aftor or the author who en-
dures him.

The Second.
People like to have their plays a£ted.

The First.

On whatever condition. Give your money at the
door, and they will weary of your prefence and your
applaufe. Well enough off with the fmall boxes, they

!ave been on the point of deciding either that the
uthor fliould give up his profits or that his piece
lould not be accepted.

'The Paradox of iASling. 73

The Second.
But this projedt involved nothing lefs than the ex-
tindtion of the dramatic author's career.

The First.
What does that matter to them ?

The Second.
You have, I think, but little more to fay.

The First.
You are miflalcen. I muft now take you by the
hand and lead you to the prefence of Clairon, that in-
comparable enchantrefs.

The Second.
She, at leaft, was proud of her calling, j

The First.
As will be all who excel in iti The Itage is de-
fpifed by thofe adtors only who have been hifled off the
boards. I muft fhow you Clairon in the real tranfports
of anger. If in them fhe happened to preferve the
bearing, the accent, the aftion of the ftage, with all
its artifice and emphafis, would you not hold your
fides ? could you contain your laughter ? What, then,
would you tell me ? Do you not roundly affert that
true fenfibility and affiimefMRnfib'ilif y are tyrovery
different things"? Youlaugh at what you would have

74 T^he 'Paradox of iABing.

admired on the ftage ; and why, pray ? The fait is,

'^at Clairon's real anger refembles fimulated anger,

knd you are able to diftinguifh between the perfonality

i/and the pafEon which that perfonality aflTumes. The
likenefs of paflio n on the ftage is not then its true like-
nefs ; it is but extravagant portrai^re, c aricature on
a grand fcale, (iibjei^i t o conventional jy les. Well,
iterrogate yourielfTafk yourfelf what artift will confine
himfelf moft ftriftly within the limits of thefe rules ?
What kind of adlor w ill moft fuccefsfully lay hold on this

/regulated bombaft — the man dominatedby his ownT cha-
rafte r, or the m a n born without charafler, or the man
who ftrips himfelf of his own to put on another greater,

^more^no ble, more fiery, more elevated i One is one's
ffelf by nature ; o ne becomes fome one elfe b y IT? 'fatlTfr' ;
the heart one is fuppofed to have is not the heart .o ne
has. What, then^J s the true talent ? That of kno wing
well the ou tward fymptoms of the foul we borrow, of
ad dreffing ourfelves to the fenfations of thofe who hear
n"j_f^;_M°, of dl'Tpivipc *"^"'"' l^y f^p ■mita'""''" o^-fcU^*""
fymptoms, by an imitation which aggrandifes every-
thTng in their imagination, and w hich bec orD££, the
meafure of their judgment ; fo r it is impoffible othe r-
v me to appreciate that which paltes i nfide us. J \.nd
after all, what_d oes it matter to us whether they fe el
or do not feel, fo lohg as we know nothing abn'i^ '> ?

He, then, who beft knows and beft renders., after
th e beft conceived ideal type, thefe outward fig ns. is
the great^ft a<Stor.

I

/

'The 'Paradox of <iA5ling. 75

The Second.

He, then, who leavesja aft to th p imcigmaf-irvn of

the great a£tor is the p;reateft po et.

The First.

I was juft going to fay fo. When by long ftage
habit one keeps a ftage accent in private life, and brings
into it Brutus, Cinna, JVIithridates, Cornelius, Merope,
Pompey, do you know what he does ? He couples
with a foul fmall or great, exaftly as Nature has cut
its meafure, the outward figns of an exalted and gigantic
foul that is not his own. The refult of this is
ridiculcj^^

The Second.

What a cruel fatire is this, innocent or of malice
prepenfe, on aftors and authors !

The First.
How fo ?

The Second.
Any one, I imagine, may have a great and ftrong
foul ; any one, I imagine, may have the bearing, the
manner, the adlion, appropriate to his foul ; and I do
not think that the expreffion of true grandeur can ever
be ridiculous, ,

The First.
What follows then ?

The Second.
Ah, you rogue ! you dare not fay it, and I {hall

76 T^he Paradox of <iA5iing.

have to incur the general indignation on your behalf.
It follows that true tragedy is yet to feek, and that,
with all their faults, the ancients came nearer to it
than we do.

The First.

It is true that it delights me to hear PhilocEtetes
fay with fuch fimple ftrength to Neoptolemus, who
brings him back the arrows of Hercules, which he
ftole at Ulyffes's inftigation, — 'See what a deed you had
done ! Without knowing it, you had condemned an
unhappy wretch to perifti of grief and hunger. Your
crime is another's, your repentance your own. No ;
never would you have thought of doing a deed fo fliame-
ful had you been left to yourfelf. See then, my child,
how important is it for your time bf life to keep only
honeft company. This is what you got by aflbciatino-
with a rafcal. And why have aught to do with a man
of this charafter \ Would your father have chofen
him for your companion an4 friend .'' Your good
father, who never let any but the firft men in the army
come near him, what would he fay if he faw you with
a Ulyffes ? '

Is there anything in this difcourfe which you might
not addrefs to my fon, or I to yours ?

The Second.
No.

The First.
Yet it is finely faid.

'The 'Paradox of nABing. yy

The Second.
Certainly.

The First.
And would the tone in which this difcourfe would
be given on the ftage differ from the tone in which
one would give it in fociety ?

The Second.
I do not think fo.

The First.
And would this tone be ridiculous in private life ?

The Second.
Not at all.

The First.

thp mnrp T oflmirg it-. I am much afraid that for a '
hundred years on end we have taken the rodomontade
of Madrid for the heroifm of Rome, and mixed up
the tone of the Tragic with that of the Epic Mufe.

The Second.
Our Alexandrine verfc jg fnn harmonious, and i s
too noble for dialogu e.

The First.
And our verf f nf tpn fyllahlpg tnn fiitilp and.tQCh
Jight— However this may be, I would like you never to
go to a performance of one of Corneille's Roman pieces,

jS The Paradox of <tABing.

but when you are frefh from reading Cicero's letters to
Atticus. How bombaftic our dramatic authors feem
to me, how repulfive are their declamations, when I
recall the fimplicity and ftrength of Regulus's difcourfe
difTuading the Senate and the Roman people from an
exchange of prifoners ! Thus he expreffes himfelf in
an ode, a poem which includes a good deal more of
fire, fpirit, and exaltation, than a tragic monologue, —
He fays : —

' I have feen our enfigns hanging in the temples of
Carthage. I have feen Roman foldiers ftripped of
their arms, unftained with one drop of blood. I have
feen liberty forgotten, citizens with their arms bound
behind their backs. I have feen the town gates wide
open, and the harveft thick on the fields we ravaged.
And you think that, brought back, they will return
braver. You add lofs to ftiame. Virtue once driven
from a degraded foul never returns. Hope nothing
from him who might have died and has let himfelf be
ftrangled. O Carthage, how great and proud thou art
in our fhame ! '

Such was his difcourfe, fuch his conduit. He re-
fufes the embraces of his wife and children ; he feels
himfelf unworthy of them, like a vile flave. He keeps
his eyes moodily fixed on the ground, and fcorns the
tears of his friends until he has brought the fenators
to a determination he alone could have propofed, and
until he is allowed to go back to his exile.

T!he Taradox of zASiing. 79

The Second.

That is fimple and fplendid, but the really heroic
moment was afterwards.

The First.
You are right.

The Second.
He knew well the torture the favage foe was pre-
paring for him. However, recovering his ferenity,
he difengages himfelf from his kinfmen, who feek to
put ofF his return, as eafily as in former times he dis-
engaged himfelf from the crowd of his clients to go and
{hake off the fatigue of bufinefs in his fields at Vena-
frum or his champaign at Tarentum.

The First.
Very good. Now lay your hand on your heart
and tell me if our poets contain many paffages of a
tone proper for fo grand yet fo domeftic a virtue,
and how from fuch lips as Regulus's would found
either our tender jeremiades or moft of our brave
words in Corneille's manner. How many things do I
not dare to confide to you ! I fhould be ftoned in the
ftreets were I known to be guilty of fuch blafphemy ;
and I am not anxious for any kind of a martyr's
crown. I f the ddy — Luiiies wliua a man of g e nius
d ar e g i ve hi s charac t ers ■ th e— fiflaple—tone^of~a^ntique '
heroifm, the^ -amor's- -art — wiH- ' affti-n*e— a- new diffi-

8o T^he 'Paradox of zABing.

culty, for declamation will ceafe to be a kind of
fing-fong.*

For the reft, in faying that fenfibility was the mark
of a good heart and a middling genius I made no
common confeflion ; for if Nature ever moulded a
fenfitive foul that foul is mine. Tj ie man of fenfibility
i s top m uch at the mercy of his diaphragm to_]Jje- a
great king, a gieilL puliliLUli,- a gital' m^gillTate, a
juft man, or a clofe obferver, and, confequently, an
admirable imitator of Nature — uals fe ; indeed, -^ i S- ca n

^"■•gflf hirr^f^^j rUfl-mr^ h\mMf fpFHW— bimj^lfp^-tulj-wif-ll
the aid of a — fl-rnng jpiaginaf-ion., malfp fnr himfplf

fpri-ain — fha pe s which ferye him f or— typeST— and— en

mh\r\\ lip Ifppps his aftpnti nn fiypd, wifh fhp aid nf a

te aacious iiicmoiy. Only then it is not his own felf
that is concerned ; it is another's mind and will that
mafter him.

Here I fhould flop ; but you will more readily
forgive me the mifplacing than the omifTion of an
obfervation. This phenomenon mufi: furely fometimes
have ftruck you. A budding aflor, or let us fay a
budding adtrefs, afks you to come and fee her quietly

* It did, in fad, fo ceafe with Le Kain ; at leaft one
gathers as much from all that can be learnt of his method'
in other authors. This is fo much the cafe that it is at firft
fight Harding to find in one part of Diderot's work a full
reference to Le Kain, and in another an implication that no
aflor had yet ventured to vary the conventional fing-fong.
But Diderot was as capable of maliing a flip as Homer.

The 'Paradox of lASiing. 8i

to form an opinion of her talent. You grant that fhe
has foul, fenfibility, paflion. You cover her with
praifes, and leave her when you depart in hope of
the greateft fuccefs. But what happens ? She ap-
pears, fhe is hifled, and you acknowledge that the
hiffes are deferved. Why is this ? Has fhe loft
her foul, her fenfibility, her paflion, between the
morning and the evening ? No \ hut jn hrr grriind

flnniV)Vwn_jnii wpre h^^jJLP" '"^^ (^rnf Inw Igvpl. ; ynn

lift^n ed to her regardlefs iiLcorLventiefl-i— fl>e-^ya»-feee-
to -face with you ; between you there was, go model
foi_B!EpQfesjafxoiii.papi-fofr;-7tr(rwerefatisfied with her
v oice, her jgefture, her-expreflioiu-her-beanag-; -aU was
in proportion to,-th£-a.ttd4en-ee-and^the^pace ; there was
nothingthatcalled for exaltatiom On the boards all
the conditions were changed : there a different imper-
fonation was needed, fince all the furroundings were
enlarged.

In private theatricals, in a drawing-room, where
the fpeftator is almoft on a level with the ailor, th^
true dramati c imperfonation would have ft xuck you as/
being on an enormous, a giganticfrale , and at- fhe e. nfi
of tneTSeri'ormance"you would Have faid confidentially to
a friend, ' She will not fucceed ; fhe is too extravagant ; '
and her fuccefs on the ftage would have aftonifhed you,.
Let me repeat it, whether for good or ill, the aftor fays
nothing and does nothing in private life in the famey
way as on the ftage : jtis a different world.

But there is a decifive fatt, which was "told me by

G

82 The Paradox of zAEling.

,in accurate perfon of an original and attractive turn
of mind, the Abbe Galiani, and which I have fince
heard confirmed by another accurate perfon, alfo of
an original and attraftive turn of mind, the Marquis
de Caraccioli, ambaffador of Naples at Paris. This is,
that at Naples, the native place of both, there is a
dramatic poetwhofe chief care is not given to compofing
his piece.

The Second.
Yours, the P'ere. de Famille, had a great fuccefs
there.

The First.

Four reprefentations running were given before the

King. This was contrary to court etiquette, which

lays down that there fhall be as many plays as days of

performance. The people were delighted. However,

■^the Neapolitan poet's care is to find in fociety perfons

. of the age, face, voice, and characEler fitted to fill his

parts. People dare not refufe him, becaufe the

Sovereign's amufement is concerned. And when, think

you, do the company begin really to a£t, to underftand

each other, to advance towards the point of perfedtion

/ he demands ? I t_is when th e a£tors are worn out

' w ith conftant rehearfals, a re what we call '■ ufed upT*^"

From this moment their progrefs is furprifing ; each

identifi es himfelf v vijhjhis pjirtj and it is at tjT£ end of

thjsJiard_ssawJt-thatJii£_4>erforj^ begin and go on~

for^Jix-months- on endjj while the_ Sovereign anTBis"'

T^he Paradox of zASling. 83

fubjecfts enjoy the higheft pleafure that can be obtained^
from a ftage illufion. And can this illufion, as fi:rong,\
as perfeit at the laft as at the firft performance, be due )
in your opinion to fenfibility ? For the reft, the ques-
tion I am diving into was once before ftarted between
a middling man of letters, Remond de Sainte-Albine,*
and a great a£lor, Riccoboni.f ■ The man of letters
pleaded the caufe of fenfibility ; the adtor took up my
cafe. The ftory is one which has only juft come to
my knowledge.

I have fpoken, you have heard me, and now I afk
you what you think of it.

The Second.

I think that that arrogant, decided, dry, hard little

man, to whom one would attribute a large allowance

of contemptuoufnefs if he had only a quarter as much

as prodigal Nature has given him of felf-fufRciency,

* Author oi Le Comedien. 171^7.

f Riccoboni was born at Mantua in 1707, and came to
France with his parents in 1716. In 1726 he made his
firft appearance, with fuccefs, at the ComMe Italienne,'as the
lover in Marivaux's Surfrife de I'Jmour. He twice left and
twice rtjoined the company. In 1749 he made what feemed
a third and definitive retreat ; but in 1 7 5 9 he reappeared again ,
as a member of the Troupe Italienne. , He died in 1772.
Baron Grimm defcribes him as a cold and pretentious aftor.
He was the author of various pieces, alone and in collabora-
tion, and publiflied a work called Penfees fur la Declamation.

84 The 'Paradox of <tA5iing.

would have been a little more referved in his judg-
ment if you had had the condefcenfion to put your
arguments before him and he the patience to liften to
you. Unluckily he knows everything, and as a man
of univerfal genius he thinks himfelf abfolved from
ftening.

The First.
Well, the public pays him out for it. Do you
know Madame Riccoboni ?*

The Second.
Who does not know the author of a great number
of charming works, full of intelligence, of purity, of
delicacy, and grace ?

The First.
Would you call her a woman of fenfibility ?

The Second.
She has proved it, not only by her works, but by
her condudt. There was an incident in her life which
led her to the brink of the tomb. After an interval of
twenty years flie has not ceafed to weep ; the fource
of her tears is not yet dry.

* Mme. Riccoboni, wife of the aftor at the Comedie
Italienne, made her firft appearance on that ftage in Auguft
1734. She went on afting for forty-fix years, and was, ac-
cording to all accounts, a very clever and interefting woman,
and a bad aftrefs. She left the ftage in 1 760 and died in
1792.

'the 'Paradox of aASling. 85

The First.
Well, this woman, one of the mofl: fenfitive tha:

Nature ever mad e, was one of the wor ft a£tr efles that)
ever a ppeared on the ftage. No one talks be tter on
dramatic a rt ; no one plays worfe.

The Second.
Let me add that flie is aware of it, and thatfhe has
never complained of being unjuftly hifled.

The First.
And why with this exquifite fenfibility, which,
according to you, is the aftor's chief requirement, is
Mme. Riccoboni fo bad ?

The Second.

It muft be that other requirements fail her to fuch
an extent that the chief one cannot make up for their
abfence.

The First.

But fhe is not ill-looking ; flie has her wits about
her J ftie has a tolerable bearing; her voice has nothing
difcordarit about it. She poflefles all the good qualities
that education can give. In fociety there is no repellent
point about her. You fee her with no feeling of pain ;
you liften to her with the greateft pleafure.

The Second.
I don't underftand it at all ; all I know is, that the
public has never been able to make up its quarrel with

86 T^he Paradox of iASling.

her, and that for twenty years on end fhe has been the
vidtim of her calling.

The First.
And of her fenfibility, out of which {he could never
raife herfelf; and it is becaufe fhe has always remained
herfelf that the public has confiftently rejedied her.

The Second.
Now come, do you not know Caillot .''

The First.
Very well.

The Second.
Have you ever talked with him of this ?

The First.

No.

The Second.
In your place I fliould be glad to have his opinion.

The First.
I have it.

The Second.
What is it ?

The First.
Your own and your friend's.

The Second. -

There is a tremendous authority againfl: you.

The 'Paradox of <iASling. 87

The First.
I admit it.

The Second.
And how did you know Caillot's opinion ?

The First.
Through a woman full of intelledt and keennefs,
the Princefs de Galitzin. Caillot was playing the
Deferter,* and was ftill on the fpot where he had juft
gone through the agonies which fhe, clofe by, had
fhared, of an unhappy man refigned to lofe his miftrefs
and his life. Caillot draws near the Princefs's box,
and with the fmile you know on his face makes feme
lively, well-bred, and courteous remarks. The Princefs,
aftonilhed, fays to him, ' What ! You are not dead ?
I, who was only a fpedlator of your anguifli, have only
juft come to myfelf ' ' No ^Madam , I^m nqt^deai
My l ot would be indeed pitiable iJ lX-died— fo-oftenr'
' I'hen you feel nothing?' 'Ah, pardon me.' And
fo they engaged in a difcuflion which ended as this of
ours will end — I {hall keep to my opinion and you to
yours. The Princefs could not remember Caillot's
arguments, but fhe had noticed that this great imitator
of Nature at the very moment of his agony, when he
was on the point of being dragged to execution, feeing
that the chair on which he would have to lay down the

* Le Dejerteur, a pretty and interefting ' melodrama,' in
the old fenfe of the word, by Sedaine.

88 The 'Paradox of dABing.

fainting Louife was badly placed, rearranged it as he
cried in a moribund voice, Louife comes not, and my
hour is nigh ! *

The Second.

I am going to propofe a compromife ; to keep for
the a£i:or's natural fenfibility thofe rare moments in
which he forgets himfelf, in which he no longer fees
the play, in which he forgets that he is on a ftage, in
which he is at Argos, or at Mycenas, in which he is
the very charadter he plays. He weeps . . .

The First.
In proper time .'

* Caillot was born in 1733 in Paris, in the Rue St.
Honor^, where his father carried on a jeweller's bufinefi.
In 1743 he was admitted under the name of Dupuis to the
king's private band of muficians. In 1752 he took to afting
in the provinces, and in 1760 he made his firft appearance
with the Troupe Italienne as Colas, in Favart's Ninette a la
Cour. His fuccefs was inftant, and increafed as his career
went on. He was admirable both as a finger and as an aftor.
Among his greateft fuccelTes was Blaife in Lucile (Marmontel's
words to Gretry's mufic). In this it was thought unuliial
daring on his part to appear on the ftage in a real peafant's
drefs, with really dully boots, and with a really bald head.
Grimm wrote of this performance : ' Caillot's playing of the
part of Blaife is, I believe, one of the moft interefting things
that can be feen on any ftage. This charming aftor puts
into his performance fo much finenefs, fo much perfeftion.

The 'Paradox of <iASiing. 89

The Second.
Yes. He exclaims . . .

The First.
With proper intonation ?

The Second.
Yes. He is tormented, indignant, defperate ; he
prefents to my eyes the real image, and conveys to my
ears and heart the true accents of the paflion which
fhakes him, fo that he carries me away and I forget
myfelf, and it is no longer Brizart or Le Kain, but
Agamemnon or Nero that I hear. All other moments
of the part I give up to art. I think it is perhaps then
with Nature as with the flave who learns to move

that it is impoffible to imagine anything better. I defy

Garrick, the great Garrick, to play the part better

Caillot in all his parts carries truth in nature and in coftume
very far. I do not know how he has managed to have juft
the bald head that Blaife fhould have.' As a matter of faft,
Caillot in Blaife, like Charles Mathewrs in Affable Hawk,
appeared for the firft time with his own bald head uncovered
by a wig. Of his prefence of mind on the ftage there is a
ftory parallel to Diderot's. In Syhain he had to fall at his
father's feet and catch him by the knees. The other aftor,
mifunderftanding the movement, drew back, fo that Caillot
fell face forwards on the ftage ; but he managed the fall fo
cleverly that it was taken for a fine ftroke of art. He left
the ftage in 1772, but occafionally returned to fill the place
of a lick comrade.

90 T^he Paradox of iASiing.

freely defpite his chain. The habit of carrying it takes
from it its weight and conftraint.

Xhe First.
An a£i:or of fenfibility may perhaps have in his
part one or two of thefe impulfes of illufion ; and the
finer their effeft the more they will be out of keeping
with the reft. But tell me, when this happens does
not the play ceafe to give you pleafure and become a
caufe of fuflfering ?

The Second.
Oh, no !

The First.
And will not this figment of fufFering have a more
powerful efFeiSl: than the every-day and real fpeiStacle
of a family in tears around the death-bed of a loved
father or an adored mother ?

The Second.
Oh, no !

The First.
Then you and the aiSor have not fo completely
forgotten yourfelves ?

The Second.

You have already pufhed me hard, and I doubt

not you could pufti me yet harder ; but I think I could

fhake you if you would let me enlift an ally. It is

half-paft four; they play Didoi let us go and fee

The 'Paradox of iASiing. 91

Mademoifelle Raucourt : fhe can anfwer you better

than I can.

The First.

I wifli it may be fo, but I fcarce hope it. Do you

think flie can do what neitherLecouvreur,* nor Duclos,

* Mile. Le Couvreur, born at Fismes (Marne) in 1690,
made her firll appearance at the Fran9ais in May 17 17, as
Eledlra in Crdbillon's tragedy. She was admitted the fame
month. She died in 1730, and the faft that (he was refufed
Chriftian burial in Paris in the fame year in which Mrs.
Oldfield was buried with all pomp in Weftminfter Abbey is
well known. Le Mazurier, who gives the outlines of the
ftory concerning her on which the play oiAdrienne Lecouvreur
was founded, has alfa a full and moft interefting account of
her afting, from which fome brief extrafts may here be given.
She was of a medium height, with fparkling eyes, fine features,
and much^iftinftion of manner. Her voice had naturally
few tones, but Ihe had karnt to give them infinite variety.
Her diftion was extremely natural, and this told greatly in
her favour, as, all her predeceflbrs, except Floridor and Baron,
had adopted a Hiked enunciation. She and Baron were faid
to be the moft loyal members of the company. They both
avoided the pradlice of ' ftarring ' in the provinces, a praftice
which of late years has given rife to much difturbance at the
Franjais. The excellence of her afting in fcenes where fhe
had to liften inftead of fpeaking was efpecially remarkable.
In all fcenes her adling was full of nature and fire. She had
every merit that Clairon hadj with an amount of feeling that
Clairon never poffefTed. She played many parts in comedy
and played them well, but it was as a tragedian that fhe was
unrivalled. Her death was felt as a public misfortune.

92 The Paradox of iASling.

norDefeine,* norBalipcourt,t norClairon, nor Dumefnil
has accomplifhed ? I dare tell you this, that if our
Ypung beginner is ftill far from perfect, it is becaufe,
|fhe is too much of a novice to avoid feeling ; J and I
Ipredidl that if flie continues to feel, to remain herfelf,
knd to prefer the narrow^ inftinft of nature to the
Mmitlefs ftudy of art, flie vf'iW never rife to the height
of the adtreffes I have named^ She will have fine

* Mile. Defeine, who afterwards married Quinault-
Dufrefne, made her firft appearance at Fontainebleau before
Louis XV. as Hermione in Andromaque. Her fuccefs was
fo marked that the king made her a prefent of a magnificent
Roman drefs, and fhe was at once admitted by fpecial ordinance.
She appeared as Hermione at the Fran9ais in 1725, left the
ftage in 1732, returned to it in 1733, and quitted it definitely
in 1736. She died in 1759. That Ihe was a great aftrefs
would be evident, if from nothing elfe, from the unreferved
praife which Clairon bellows on her in her Memoirs.

t Mile. Balicourt (fo Le Mazurier fpells it) made her
firft appearance at the Fran9ais in 1727 as Cleopatre in
Rodogune. A month later Ihe was admitted. Her great fuccefs
was in parts demanding a queenly prefence. All that was
againft her in thefe was her youth, and this Le Mazurier
fays, with a peculiarly French touch, the pit forgave her
with more readinefs than it forgave Duclos for remaining
on the boards when Ihe was fixty. She left the ftage in
1738 and died in 1743.

J A very diftinguifhed Englilh aftor of our own day fays
of a part in which he has won much well-deferved fame, and
which is full of feeling, that his great difiiculty was to get

The 'Paradox of aASiing. 93

moments, but flie will not be fine. It will be with
her as with GaufEn and many others, who all their
Jives have been mannered, weak, and monotonous,
only becaufe they have never got out of the narrow-
limits which their natural fenfibility impofed upon
them. You are ftill bent on marfhalling Mademoifelle
Raucourt againft me ?

The Second.
Certainly.

The First.

As we go I will tell you a thing which has a clofe

enough connexion with the fubjeft of our talk. I

knew Pigalle ;* his houfe was open to me. One

morning I go there ; I knock ; the artift opens the

over the feeling with which it naturally imprelTed him. He
had to learn the words like a parrot before he could truft
himlelf to give any meaning to them. When he firft played
it he was ftill a little liable to be carried away by its emotion,
and he notes that • whenever I began really to cry the audi-
ence left off crying.'

* Pigalle was born in 1 71 4 and died in 1785. Voltaire
called him the French Phidias, and in return Pigalle executed
perhaps,,the worft ftatue of Voltaire extant. His Mercury
gained him his eleftion to the Academy, and led to his vifit
to Frederick the Great. He prefented himfelf at the Palace
at Berlin as Fauteur du Mercare, and was told that His Majesty
would give him twenty-four hours to leave the kingdom.
Frederick's poems had been maltreated in the Mercure de
France, and he took Pigalle for the critic.

94 ^he 'Paradox of aJtSiing.

door with his roughing - chifel in his hand; then
flopping me on the threftiold of the ftudio he fays,
' Before I let you pafs, aflure me you will not be
alarmed at a beautiful woman without a rag of clothes
on.' I fmiled and walked in. He was working at his
monument to Marfhal Saxe, and a very handfome
model was flanding to him for the figure of France.
But how do you fuppofe {he ftruck me among the
coloffal figures around her .? She feemed poor, fmall,
mean — a kind of frog ; fhe was overwhelmed by them,
and I fliould have had to take the artift's word for it
that the frog was a beautiful woman, if I had not
waited for the end of the fitting and feen her on the
fame level with myfelf, my back turned to the gigantic
figures which reduced her to nothingnefs. I leave it
to you to apply this curious experience to Gauffin, to
Riccoboni, to all ailreffes who have been unable to
attain to greatnefs on the ftage.

If by fome impoffible chance an actrefs were en-
dowed with a fenfibility comparable in degree to that
which the moll finifhed art can fimulate, the flage
offers fo many different charafters for imitation, one
leading part brings in fo many oppofite fituations that
this rare and. tearful creature, incapable of playing two
different parts well, would at beft excel in certain
paffages-of one part; fhe would be the moft unequal,
the narroweff, the leaft apt ailrefs you can imagine.
If it happened that flie attempted a great flight, her
predominant fenfibility would foon bring her down to

'The Paradox of aytSling. 95

mediocrity. She would be lefs like a ftrong fteed at
the gallop than a poor hack taking the bit in its teeth.
Then one inftaht of energy, momentary, fudden,
without gradation or preparation, would ftrike you
as an attack of madnefs.

Senfibility being after all the mate of Sorrow and
Weaknefs, tell me if a gentle, weak, fenfitive creature
is fit to conceive and. exprefs the felf-poffeflion of
Leontine, the jealous tranfports of Hermjone, the fury
of Camilla, the maternal tendernefs of Merope, the
delirium and remorfe of Phaedra, the tyrannical pride
of Agrippina, the violence of Clytemneftra ? Leave
your ever tearful one to one of our elegiac arts, and
do not take her out of it.

The fa(S is, that to havejenfjbility is "np thing, ?o\
feel is another. One iT"a^ atter of foiil , thp mVipy of/
judgment. One may feel ftron gly and be unable to
exprefs it ; one~ may alone, or in private \i£ s..-€tt the
firefid e, give e xpreflion, in reading or acSing, adequate
for a few lifteners, anS" givermm^ ^ot any'liccount , on
the ftage . On the Itage, with iJvTiS: we ca ll fenfib ility,
foul, paiEon, one-may give on e or two tirades well an d
rtlifc tll i l lafl : — R-n ^t-alfe in the whole extent of a g reat
part, to arrange its' light and fhade, its forts and feebles ;
"to maintain an equal merit in the quiet and in the violent
paflages ; to have variety both in harmonious detail
and in the broad efFeft ; to eftablilh a fyftem of decla-
mation which fliall fucceed in carrying ofF every freak
of the poet's — this is matter for a cool head, a profound

96 I'he Paradox of z^Bing.

judgment, an exquiiite tafte, — a matter for hard work,
for long experience, for an uncommon tenacity of me-
imory. The rule, Quails ah incepto procejjerit etftbi conftet,
'rigorous enough forthe poet, is fixed down to the minuteft
point for the a<5i:or. He who comes out from the wing
without having his whole fcheme of acting in his head,
his whole part marked out, will all his life play the
part of a beginner. Or if endowed with intrepidity^
felf-fufEciency, and fpirit, he relies on his quicknefs of
wit and the habit of his calling, he will bear you down
with his fire and the intoxication of his emotions, and
you will applaud him as an expert of painting might
fmile at a free fketch, where all was indicated and
nothing marked. This is the kind of prodigy which
may be feen fometimes at a fair or at Nicolet's.*
Perhaps fuch people do well to remain as they are —
mere roughed-out a£lors. More ftudy would not
give them what they want, and might take from
them what they have. Take them for what they
are worth, but do not compare them to a finiflied
pidture.

* Nicole t was, as may be judged from the context, one
of the greateft managers of the Theatres de Foire. He com-
bated defperately, and had not a little to do with upfetting the
exclufive rights claimed by the Com'ediem du Rot, which rights
were fo flcilfully eluded by Piron in his Arlequin Deucalion.
The whole ftory, which is given in M. Bonnaffies's SpeBacks
Forains (Paris : Dentu), affords a curious parallel to the
fimilar ftruggle in England. ,

"The Paradox of iASling. 97

The Second.
I have only one more queftion to aflc you.

Thb First.
Afkit.

The Second.
Have you ever feen a whole piece played to per-
feflion ?

The First.
On my word I can't remember it. Stop a bit —
yes, fometimes — a middling piece by middling adlors.

Our two talkers went to the playhoufe, but as
there were no places to be had they turned ofF to the
Tuileries. They walked for fome time in filence.
They feemed to have forgotten that they were to-
gether, and each talked to himfelf as if he were
alone, the one out loud, the other fo low that he could
not be heard, only at intervals letting out words,
ifolated but diftinft, from which it was eafy to guefs
that he did not hold himfelf defeated.

The thoughts of the man with the paradox are the
only ones of which I can give an account, and here
they are, difconnefted as they muft be when one omits
in a foliloquy the intermediate parts which ferve to
hang it together. He faid : Put an aftor of fenfibility
in his place, and fee how he will get out of the mefs.
What did this man do, however ? He puts his foot

H

98 'The 'Paradox of zASiing.

on the baluftrade, refaftens his garter, and anfwers the
courtier he defpifes with his head turned on his fhoulder ;
and thus an incident which would have difconcerted
any one but this cold and great adtor is fuddenly
adapted to the furroundings and becomes a trait of
genius.*

[He fpoke, I think, of Baron, in the tragedy of the
Comte d'EJfe'x. He added with a fmile :]

Yes ; he will tell you flie feels when, her head in
her confidante's bofom, almoft at the point of death, her
eyes turned to the third tier of boxes, flie fuddenly fees
an old Juftice, who is diffolved in tears, and whofe
grief exprefles itfelf in ludicrous grimaces, when {he
exclaims, ' Look up there ! there's a fine face for you ! '
muttering the words under her breath, like the end of
fome inarticulate moan. Tell me no fuch ftufF!

If I remember right, this was Gauflin in Zaire.

And this third, whofe end was fo tragic. I knew
him ; I knew his father, who afked me fometimes to
talk to him through his ear-trumpet.

[Here we are evidently dealing with the excellent
Montmefnil.]

* The fame ftory ot the accidental unfaftening of a garter
being turned to excellent account by an aftor of great prefence
of mind has in later days been referred, probably by confu-
fion with Diderot's ftory, to the fcene in Ruy Bias, in which
Don Sallufte, difguifed as a lackey, gives his commands to Ruy
Bias difguifed as Prime Minifter.

T^he 'Paradox of zASiing. 99

He was candour and honour itfelf. What was
there in common between his character and that of
Tartufe, which he played fo well ? Nothing. Where
did he find the ftiiFneck, the ftrange roll of the eyes,
the honeyed tone, and all the other fine touches in
the hypocrite's part ? Take care how you anfwer ; I
have you.

In a profound imitation of Nature. (

In a profound imitation of Nature ? 1 ,

And you will note tha t the inward fi gps- which
chiefly mark the fimplicity of the fo ul are not fo m uch /
to^eleen m J Nature as the outward figns of hypoc rify. I
Yo u cannot ftudy them there, and an aftor of great'
talent will find more difliculty in feizing on and ex-
a mining the one than th e other. And if I maintained
that of all th e qualities of the foul fenfibility is t he
pafipft fo r^iintt^rfp"'] fi nce there is f carce a man alive
fo cruel, fo inhuma n, that there is no germ of it in his
heart, and that h f hag n^ypx fpl*-- i<- — a t hing- whi ch
cannot be fafely faid of all the othe r paflions, fuc h as
av arice, d iftruit i iJut an excellent inltrument . . . ?.

Ah, lunderftand you. Bet ween him who coun ter- \
feits fenfibility and him who feels th ere will always be /
the differen c e between an im itation and a reality. , /

And fo much the better ; fo much the better^I tell
you. In the firft cafe the aftor has no trouble about
feparating himfelf from himfelf ; he will arrive at one
blow, at one bound, at the height of his ideal type. . .^

At one blow, at one bound !

loo 'The 'Paradox of <iA5ting.

You are pettifogging over an expreflion. I mean

'' that, never being brought back to the little type

before him, he w^ill be as great, as aftonifhing,

as perfeft an imitator of fenfibility as of avarice,

hypocrify, duplicity — of every charafter that is not

his own, of every paffion that he does not feep What

the perfon of natural f enfibility fhows m e wilP be

l ittle ; the other^s imitation will be ftrong ; or7~if the

copies fhould be of equal ftrength , which I by no means

grant you, the one, ma fter of himfelf, play ing entirely

by fl: udy and judgment, will be, as d aily experience

fhows us, more of a piece than the one who plays part

from nature, par t from firudy, part from a typ e,_pjrt

froiri—himiHf. However cleverly the two imitations

may be fufed together, a keen fpecSator will difcriminate

between them even more eafily than a great artift will

difcern in a flatue the line which marks off either two

different flyles or a front taken from one model and a

I hack from another. . . . Let a confummate aftor

I leave off playing from his head, let him forget himfelf,

I let his heart be involved, let fenfibility poffefs him, let

Vhim give himfelf up to it ....

He will intoxicate us.

Perhaps.

He will tranfport us with admiration.
It is not impoffible ; but it will be on condi-
tion of not breaking through his fyftem of declama-
tion ; of not injuring the unity of the performance;
otherwife you will fay that he has gone mad. Yes,

The '■Paradox of nABing. loi

on this fuppofition you will, I admit, have a fine
moment ; but wo uld you rather have a fine moment
than a fine part ? ""TFthat is your choice it is not mine.

Here the man with the paradox was filent. He
walked with long ftrides, not feeing where he went ;
he would have knocked up againfl: thofe who met him
right and left if they had not got out of his way. Then,
fuddenly flopping, and catching his antagonift tight
by the arm, he faid, with a dogmatic and quiet Cone,
' My friend, th ere are three types — Nature's man , the
popt^ iTiari^the aftnr' ;; man. Nature's is lefs g reat
than rhepoet's, the poet's lefs great than the p;re at
a£ tor's, wh ich is the mnfl: exalted j jfall. This lafl
climbs on the fhoulders of the one before him and fhuts
himfelf up infide a great bafket-work figure of which
he is the foul. He moves this figure fo as to terrify
even the poet, who no longer recognifes himfelf; and
he terrifies us, as you have very well put it, juft as
children frighten each other by tucking up their little
fkirts and putting them over their heads, fliaking
themfelves about, and imitating as belt they can the
croaking lugubrious accents of the fpetSre that they
counterfeit. Ha^e ybu not feen engravings of children's
fports ? * Have you not obferved an urchin coming

* For fpecial inftances of fuch plates M. Afl'ezat refers us
to Les Jeux des Jnciens, by M. Becq de Fouqui^res (in 8vo.
Reinwald, 1 869).

I02 'The Paradox of oASiing.

forward under a hideous old man's mafk, which hides
him from head to foot ? Behind this mafk he laughs
, at his little companions, who fly in terror before him.
This urchin is th e true fymb ol of the adtor ; his com-
rades are the fymbol of the audience. Ifthe -adior has
but middlin g fenfibility , and ifTliat is his only me rit,
will you not c all him a middling man ? Take care,
for this is another trap I am laying for you. And if he
is endowed with extreme fenfibility what will come of
it ?— What will come of it ? That he w ill either pla y
no more, or play lu dicroufly ill ; yes, ludicroufly ; and
to prove it you can fee the iame thing in me when you
like. If I have a recital of fome pathos to give, a
ftrange trouble arifes in my heart and head ; my
tongue trips, my voice changes, my ideas wander, my
fpeech hangs fire. I babble ; I perceive it ; tears courfe
down my cheeks ; I am filent. But with this I make
an efFeiSi: — in private life ; on the ftage I fhould be
hooted.
Why.?

Becaufe p eople come not to fee tears^ hut to hear
fpeeches that draw tear s ; becaufe this t ruth of nature
is out of tun e with the truth of conv ention. Let
me explain myfelf : I mean that neithe r the drama tic
fyftem, nor the a£i:ion, nor the poet's fpeeches, would
fit~themielves to my Itifled, bro ken, iobbmg d eclama-
tioiiL You fee that i t is no t al lowable to imitate Natur e,
even at her beft, or Truth too clofely ; there a re lim its
withm which we muft reftridt ourfelves.

I^he 'Paradox of eASiing. 103

And who has laid down thofe limits ?
Good fenfe, which wiU not play ofF one talent at
the expenle of another. 'Ihe adtor mult Ibmetimes

faf-jjfi(-p "himlpit tn ^the pnpf"

But if the poet's compofition lent itfelf to that ftyle?

Then you would have a fort of tragedy very dif-
ferent to what you have here.

And where would be the harm ?

I do not know what you would gain, but I know
very well what you would lofe.

Here the man with the paradox came near his
antagonift for the fecond or third time, and faid to
him, —

The faying is grofs, but it is amufing, and it was
faid by an acSrefs as to whofe talent there are no two
opinions. It is a pendant to the fpeech and fituation
of Gauflin : fhe, too, has her head on the breaft of
Pillot-Pollux ; fhe is dying, at leaft I think fo, and
fhe fays to him in a low tone, 'Ah,Pillot, que tu puesl'
This was Arnould playing Telaire. At this moment
was Arnould really Telaire? No; fhe was Arnould,
confiflently Arnould.* You will never bring me to

* Sophie Arnould, the moll famous finger of her day,
was born in 1740 and died in 1802. She firft attrafted
notice by finging, when little more than a child, before
Mme. de Pompadour, and fhe made her firft appearance at
the Opera at the age of feventeen. Mile. Fel taught her

I04 T^he 'Paradox of aABing.

praife the intermediate degrees of a quality which, if it
were carried to its fulleft extent, and the a£tor were
maftered by it, would fpoil all. But let me fuppofe
that the poet has written a fcene to be declaimed on
the ftage as I fliould recite it in private life, who would
play fuch a fcene ? No one : no, no one; not even
an a£tor moft completely mafter of his actions; for once
that he came well out of it he would mifs it a thoufand
times. Succefs, then, hangs on fo little ! This laft
argument flrikes you as not very cogent } So be it,
but not the lefs fhall I dedudt from it a little burfHng
of fome bubbles, a lowering of fome ftilts by a few
notches, and the leaving things pretty much as they
are. For one poet of genius who attained this pro-
digious truth to nature there would be a vaft number
■, of flat and infipid imitators. It is not allowable, under
pain of becoming infipid, awkward, and deteftable, to
go one line below the fimplicity of Nature. Don't
you think fo .''

The Second.
I don't think anything. I did not hear what you
faid.

The First.

What.'' We have not been continuing our difpute?

finging, Clairon taught her ailing. For details concerning
her romantic hiftnry readers may be referred to MM. de Gou-
coiirt's compilation, Sophie Arnould d'apres fa Correjponiance
(Paris, Dentu). The fcene related by Diderot took place in
the opera of Caftor et Pollux.

The 'Paradox of zA^Sting. loc

The Second.
No.

The First.
Then what the deuce were you doing ? And of
what were you dreaming ?

The Second.
That an Englifli aftor, called, I think, JVIacklin
(I was at the playhoufe that day), having to make his
excufes to the pit for his temerity in playing I know
not what part in Shakfpeare's Macbeth after Garrick,
faid, amongft other things, that the impreffions which
fubjugated a£bors and fubmitted them to the poet's
genius and infpiration were very hurtful to them. I do
not remember the reafons he gave for it, but they were
very good, and they were felt and applauded. For the
reft, if you are curious about it you will find them in a
letter inferted in the St. Jama's Chronicle, over the
fignature of ' Quintilian.' *

* On this remarkable paflage the ufually irrefragable
M. Aflezat has a note which is perhaps equally remarkable,
and of which I append a tranflation. The Italics are my
own. ' The faft here recorded is another affiilance to fixing
approximately the date of Diderot's work. The qijarrel
between Macklin and Garrick lafted feveral years, but it
was not till 1773 'h^' Macklin took up Garrick's parts,
notably that of Macbeth. As he had formerly been the
moving fpirit of a cabal againft Garrick, which, defpite his
talent, went the length of rotten apples and bad eggs, fo now,
it is faid, Garrick foftered a cabal againft Macklin. Lefs

(

io6 The 'Paradox of (tASling.

The First.
So, then, I have been talking all alone all this long
time ?

The Second.
Very likely — juft as long as I have been dreaming
all alone. You knowr that of old acSors played wromen's
parts ?

The First.
I know it.

The Second.
Aulus Gellius recounts in his Attic Nights that a
certain Paulus, robed in the lugubrious trappings of
Eledtra, infl-ead of prefenting himfelf on the ftage with
the urn of Oreftes, appeared holding in his arms the
urn containing the aflies of his own fon whom he had
juft lofl: ; and then it was no vain reprefentation, no

lucky than his compeer, or, unlike him, being unprovided with a
Sufficing gang of bruij'ers, Macklin had to give up the boards.
It was before he played Macbeth for the firft time that he
made a fpeech, in accordance with Englilh ftage cuftom,
belpeaking the indulgence of the audience.'

Diderot has made a hopelefs confufion between Garrick's
quarrel with Macklin (as to which Macklin publiftied a pam-
phlet in 1 743) and the riotous proceedings which took place on
Macklin's third performance of Macbeth at Covent Garden in
1773- Thefe were due to Coleman's fimultaneous engagement
of William Smith and Macklin, both of whom claimed an ex-
clufive right to aftingcertain charafters, Macbeth amongft them.
Full particulars will be found in Kirkman's Life of Macklin.

The 'Paradox of <tA6itng. 107

petty forrow of the ftage : but the houfe rang with
real flirieks and groans.

The First.
And you believe that Paulus at this moment fpoke
on the ftage as he would have fpoken at his firefide ?
Noj no. This prodigious eiFedt, as to which I enter-
tain no doubt, depended neither on Euripides's verfe
nor on the declamation of the adlor, but on the fpecftacle
of a defolate father who bathed with his tears the urn
holding his own fon's aihes. This Paulus was perhaps
only a middling aftor ; no better than that iEfopus of
whom Plutarch reports, that, ' playing one day to a full
houfe the part of Atreus, deliberating with himfelf how
he fliall avenge himfelf on his brother Thyeftes, there
was one of the fervants who wifhed to run fuddenly
paft him, and he (^fopus) being befide himfelf with
the vehement emotion and the ardour he threw into
reprefenting to the life the furious paflion of King
Atreus, gave him fuch a blow on the head with the
fceptre he held in his hand that he killed him on the
fpot.' He was a madman, and the tribune ought to
have fent him ftraight ofF to the Tarpeian rock.

The Second.
Probably he did.

The First.
I doubt it. The Romans attached fo much im-
portance to the life of a great a<3:or, and fo little to the
life of a flave.

io8 'The 'Paradox of (tASting.

^''~~ But they fay an a£tor is all the better for being ex-
cited, for being angry. I deny it. He is bell when he
imitates anger. A fl:or§_ i m prpfs th p pnhji c not wh en

! tj^^^jire furious, but when they play fury well .^ In
tribunals, in alTemblies, everywhere w here a man wiflies
tomakehimfelf mafter of others' minds, he feigns now
anger^now fear, now pity, now Jove, to brmg others
into thefe divers ftates of feeling. What paiEon itfelf
mils to do, pallion well imlrated accompiilhes.

L>o not people taiK in lociety of a man being a great
aflor ? They do not mean by that that he feels , but
that he e xcels in firaulating, though he feels nothing —
a part much more ditfacult than that ot the a6to r; for
the man of the world has to find dialogue befides, and
to fulfil two functions, the poet's and the aftor's. The
poet on the ftage may be more clever than the a£tot%
of private life, but is it to be believed that an adlor on]
the ftage can be deeper, cleverer in feigning joy, fadnefsV
fenfibility, admiration, hate, tendernefs, than an olfl
courtier ?

But it is late. Let us go fup.

London :

Printed by Strangeways & Sons, tmer Street,

Offer St. Martin's Lane, IV.C.